It's Called a 'Near Death Experience' For a Reason
by Haelia
Summary: Or, "Five Times Sherlock Nearly Died, and One Time He Really Did." Rated T for language, and possibly graphic injuries. Sherlock whump. No slash. WARNING: Character death in final chapter!
1. Not Good?

**A/N: Consider this your due warning that you are about to enter upon a(nother) hurt!Sherlock fic. At times it's also (I'm told) a doctor!John fic. Why? Because whump, that's why. Furthermore: yes, all of my chapters are named with overused Sherlock one-liners. And most of them have nothing to do with the story therein. So that's happening.**

1. Not Good?

The last thing Greg Lestrade had said to him that day was, "You are not authorised to pursue suspects." It wasn't because Lestrade was particularly gifted with any sort of foresight or intuition or anything – actually it was a joke, sort of. Somebody made an offhanded comment about giving Sherlock a badge and letting him go and do all the arresting, and Lestrade wagged a finger at him. Jokingly. Laughingly. Sherlock had even smiled in response. Mirthlessly, perhaps, but still.

And then two hours later, found himself pursuing a suspect. Alone. Unarmed. Wasn't supposed to be a problem. Wasn't supposed to be a pursuit. Just a quick gathering of information, but their paths had crossed on an off-chance, and the suspect (murderer) had recognised Sherlock. Or thought he was the police. Of course he ran. Of course Sherlock chased him. Of course they reached a dead end, and of course the man pulled a gun.

_And that's the short version of how I ended up here_, Sherlock thinks to himself as he stares at the heavens. It's early evening, and the setting sun has dyed the sky pink, violet, orange. It's beautiful, and it burns Sherlock's eyes. He wonders fleetingly if the suspect's other six victims – all women – had done this same thing. Stared at the sky as they died, and noted how painfully bright it was.

Sherlock realises with some concern that no one knows where he is. He's utterly alone, abandoned in an alley behind a warehouse near… He isn't even sure. Can't get his bearings. Not with the sky so dazzlingly pink and orange and –

Must move. Must find help. Push up from ground, stand, find someone; anyone. Only his limbs aren't obeying him and he cannot do any of those things. He manages to bend a knee, but – _oh_, the pain. Of course, yes, that makes sense. Bullet in the belly. Pain in the core. Can't move much of anything without engaging abdominals, after all. No matter what he does, it's going to bloody hurt.

Knowing this should make it easier for him to resign himself to something – death from doing nothing or pain from trying to right the situation – but it does not. Both options look pretty uninviting. Sherlock assesses the situation.

It is a Wednesday. It is evening, probably seven-ish. The weather is mild. A beautiful day, John would call this. Pity, that. To die on a beautiful day.

Train of thought derailed completely. Where was he going with that? Oh yes, the situation. Tuesday, mild, seven-ish. Most people would be at dinner. The warehouses nearby would likely be abandoned, the workday over. Shouting, even if he could, would be no help. So that's out.

Mobile. Jacket pocket. Inside, left breast. _Move_. Sherlock grudgingly removes one hand from where he's applying pressure to the wound, and lifts it toward his chest. He notes with some displeasure that his hand his trembling as it disappears into his jacket for his phone. The seconds crawl by at an alarmingly slow pace. His slippery fingers fumble for a moment trying to reach the damned device, and a gurgling choke escapes his throat as he grows impatient.

Finally, _finally_, he's able to remove the thing from his pocket. It takes all the strength in his hand just to depress a couple buttons and unlock the keyguard. Not good, not good at all. His eyes swim, blinded by the violet sky, as he struggles to navigate the menu. Text messages. No, that's not what he wants. History. History. Where's the damn call history? Can't find it. Can't navigate out of text messages, can't see, can't press buttons. Click something. His clumsy fingers press the centre select key. Half accident. Doesn't matter. Speaker button. The phone clatters to the pavement and Sherlock can hear the line connect, and then ring. Ring and ring and ring.

"Donovan," comes the answer at last.

A string of expletives comes to mind. Of all people… _Speak. Speak! Say something. _I need help, Sally. Ambulance. Warehouses near Eleventh. Storage containers. Quick as you can, now. Bleeding to death, you see. Rather painful.

"Mmhp," is all that comes out.

_Oh, for the love of all that is holy._

"What do you want, Freak?" Sally demands. "I can hear you breathing."

_Then listen closely_, thinks Sherlock, because surely his _breathing_ doesn't sound like breathing at all. He closes his eyes, forces all his strength to his chest, to his diaphragm, and tries again. "Sally…" A word, at least, this time, but it's cut off by a gurgle, and then he's struggling for air. He turns his head – a tremendous effort – and vomits onto the pavement. There's blood in it. That can't be good.

"What the fu… Where are you?" Sally's voice has taken on an uncharacteristic pitch. Strange. Panic? Interesting. At least she seems to understand that Sherlock is in trouble. That is good. That is very, very good. Maybe.

Breathe. Focus.

The sky's unnatural violet hue is dizzying.

Perhaps that's the blood loss.

"…'Leventh…" Cough. The effort of that rips an involuntary cry of pain from Sherlock's throat, which peters out to a breathless snarl. Now if he could just devote the same amount of energy to speaking actual words. His tongue feels like it's made of cotton candy. No, that doesn't make sense. Cotton candy would just dissolve. Wool. Isn't that what people say when they're tongue-tied? Or is it cotton? Muslin, linen? Who knows? Does it matter? Sherlock Holmes doesn't get tongue-tied. "Ware… houses…"

In the background, he can hear Sally flipping through sheafs of paper. The case file. Smart girl. She's looking for a clue as to where he might have gone looking for information and run into trouble.

"Warehouses on Eleventh," she mutters under her breath. Lestrade must be there too; his voice is audible in the background, but Sherlock can't make out what he's saying.

It's taking Sally hours to figure this out. No, not hours, just seconds, but it feels like hours. God, it feels like days. Sherlock is tired, so very tired, and all he wants to do is close his eyes and sleep. His survival may depend on his staying conscious, but it's so hard to keep his eyes open when the lids feel so heavy.

"The storage," Sally breathes at last. "You went after him. The Freak went after Bruce Collins! He's at the storage!" This last to Lestrade, who swears. Someone (Lestrade? Donovan?) says something about John, and Sherlock's heart twists in a way he isn't expecting.

_Sorry, John. _He feels guilty. He had promised to buy milk while he was out. John is working. He won't even find out until later. There will be no milk for his tea, _and_ his flatmate will be dead.

"Say something," demands Donovan now, but her voice has lost its edge. Actually, she sounds a little soggy.

Soggy?

"Mn." As good as it's going to get.

"We're phoning John, Sherlock. Stay with me. Talk."

_With you? With you? _Sherlock wonders. _I'm not with you at all. I'm across London from you. How on earth…_ "Mn." He realises abruptly that she called him by name. He must sound awful, if she's that worried. He wonders what he sounds like. Is he crying? Moaning? Breath hitching in his throat as he struggles to breathe through the incredible agony of the bullet buried in his abdomen? He isn't sure.

"What's happened?" Donovan is asking.

That's important. Sherlock feels he should tell her. Someone should know. Someone should tell John, so he will know. "C-Collins," he chokes out. "Storage…"

"Near Eleventh. Yes. Was he there?"

"N-No… then yes…" _That makes no sense. _"Sh… Sho…" Choking again. Put pressure on the wound, don't be stupid. Take a breath. "Gun. He… had… a gun…"

Sally inhales sharply. Lestrade says something in the distance. Sally sounds very close to the receiver when she says, "He shot you. He shot you?" She must be relaying to someone else.

"Mn." His arms ache from trying to push the blood back into the hole in his stomach. He can feel it trickling through his fingers – why isn't gravity helping with any of this? Well, of course, because his heart is pumping the blood into the wound, and it's overspilling, and really it ought to remain in his veins where it belongs, but they're all torn up and unreliable. They end at his stomach. Useless veins. Stupid veins.

Sirens. Crunch of gravel as tires crash over a little-used pathway. People talking. Footsteps.

Sherlock doesn't even stay conscious long enough to be combative with the paramedics. He just fades.

_Sorry, John. Sorry about the milk._

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He's swimming through a thick grey soup. Sherlock soup, with broth made of blood and bile. That makes no sense, a lot like cotton candy tongues. His eyelids are shot through with violet streaks all of a sudden. Sherlock realises he's trapped in the strange limbo between unconscious and conscious, with no clue how to get out. He hates it here. He struggles a little. _One way or the other_, he commands his brain. _But pick a direction. Can't hang out in the intersection where it's soupy._

White light sears his eyelids which suddenly seem much too thin. Ohh, dear. Sherlock squints, forces his eyes open, and blinks rapidly. There is a dull ache in his low belly and he knows that he is awake. He knows that he is in hospital. _Beep. Beep. Beep. _Heart monitor. Increasing in tempo ever so slightly as he comes out of the drug-induced haze.

When the room finally comes into focus, Sherlock takes stock of the current situation. He feels as if he has been asleep for days. He feels as if his pain management regimen is certainly not up to par. He feels as if he ought to speak, if only to see if he's regained the ability to form sentences.

All that comes out is a groan; his throat is dry. Cotton candy again.

Something stirs on the bed by his hand. He turns his head and looks down and sees short blond hair by his fingers. The hair is attached to a head, which is attached to a body, which must be John's. He's seated, but draped over the bed, his face turned away as he snores gently. Sherlock lifts one finger to touch the soft golden locks.

John startles awake almost instantly, eyes settling quickly on Sherlock's face as he pulls himself upright. His gaze scans him rapidly. "How are you feeling?" he asks. He's wearing his doctor face.

Sherlock glances meaningfully at the pitcher of water on the counter over there. John is a bit slow upon waking, and follows the detective's gaze with a look of confusion. And then –

"Oh!" He moves to the counter, pours a glass, and brings it over, helping his flatmate to drink – "Slowly, Sherlock" – before setting it down and waiting expectantly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, and his voice is reedy. There's a pause while he composes himself. "Surprised," he says at last.

John looks a bit lost for a moment, but Sherlock doesn't explain, and shortly he realises that this is the answer to his question. Surprised. Sherlock is feeling surprised.

"To be alive," clarifies the detective. His eyes slide shut.

"Do you remember what happened?" John questions, frowning.

"Gunshot wound."

"Right. You chased Bruce Collins into an alley _alone_. He pulled a gun on you. You nearly bled to death back there behind the storage."

"Did you tell Lestrade that I found – "

"He knows, Sherlock. Collins was arrested this morning. It's been two days."

A long pause, in which John does not further berate Sherlock for what he's done. No, he will want him to remember the lecture when he does give it, so he saves it for later. For now he's quietly grateful that Sherlock is alive and conscious and not… well, the alternative.

"Give me two more," Sherlock says tiredly, his head lolling a bit to one side. "Days, that is." He sighs.

John smiles. "Okay," he replies, with an awkward pat to Sherlock's hand. "But after that we all expect you to be chasing down the next criminal."

"Deal…"


	2. Shock Blanket

2. Shock Blanket

"_We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."_

"_Look at me, I'm in shock. I have a blanket."_

What a strange memory to surface at a time like this. Although… wait. A time like this? What time _is _it exactly? Sherlock wracks his brain. It is strangely blank. This should panic him; it does not. The blankness and the lack of panic combine in an equation with a terrible solution: drugs – most likely narcotic. Oh, no. That's not good. And not just A Bit Not Good, but Very Not Good.

Pain lances through his chest. He has the distinct feeling that if not for the drugs, it would be a lot worse. Morphine, then, he decides. Likely not self-administered, if the burning in his lungs and the smell of antiseptic are any indication. That is considerably less ominous. Probably.

"Sherlock?"

The fog closes in around him again.

* * *

**Six hours earlier**

"Well, what do you make of it?" asks Lestrade as he watches Sherlock inspect the scene. He, Sherlock, and John are standing on a narrow bridge above a countryside river, staring at the body of a redhead. Donovan and Anderson hover some twenty feet away, at Sherlock's (and therefore Lestrade's) orders.

The scene is picturesque. The old stone bridge, the rushing river beneath, the quaint village nearby. They even have the added advantage of the sun setting behind a hill in the distance. The dead girl is a macabre decoration in what would otherwise be a postcard-worthy setting.

"Ritualistic killing?" John offers, inspecting the body closely, his gloved fingers probing the wound in her throat. "Likely bled out in under two minutes, judging by the depth and breadth of the throat wound."

John says ritualistic because her arms are spread out to either side, and her ankles are crossed. Crucifix position in the middle of the rustic bridge.

Sherlock surmises that she was lying like that when the killer snuck up on her as she basked in the rare warmth of an autumn afternoon. After all, she is still wearing her dress and her jumper. "If it was ritualistic, she'd be naked," he points out. He explains his theory. "The bridge is rarely used nowadays; the path doesn't lead anywhere except into the countryside. She _chose_ this spot to lie down. Perhaps to be close to the river without having to lie in the mud beside it."

Nobody is able to disagree with him.

All of a sudden, Sherlock freezes, his expression suddenly alarmed.

"What is it?" John asks, glancing at the dead girl. Sherlock's eyes are locked on the surface of the bridge beside her head. The exact space where Lestrade's feet are planted.

"Sherlock," Lestrade prompts, waiting for Sherlock to fill them all in.

"Don't move," Sherlock says sharply to Lestrade. "Stay exactly as you are."

Greg looks to John incredulously, and shifts his weight.

Which happens to be a very bad idea.

With an ominous crack, the edge of the bridge on which Lestrade is standing suddenly begins to crumble under his weight. The stones are coming loose from the mortar from all the sudden use after years of lying untouched.

The river is a mere ten feet below, but it is cold and moving fast.

Sherlock lunges for Lestrade as the inspector flails, searching for purchase on the rocks slipping out from beneath him. He is a half second too late, and Lestrade falls straight into the river below.

"Shit." With alacrity, Sherlock begins shedding his coat, preparing to dive into the river himself.

"Wait!" John cries out, staying him with a hand on his shoulder. He is looking at Sherlock like he is insane. He points down into the river. "There he is," he says as Lestrade's head breaks the surface. "He's conscious, he'll swim to the bank and we can pull him out there."

Sherlock's eyes are wild and impatient as they bore into John's. "_He can't swim_," he hisses, and dives into the river.

Cold. It slams into his body like a physical force, threatening to slow his movements. An icy finger reaches down his throat as his body cuts through the frigid water. Shoes. Should have taken off the shoes. They'll be a problem.

No time for that now. Sherlock finds which way is up and breaks the surface. His teeth are already chattering, but he has to find Lestrade. He spots him some way downstream, fighting against the current. Lestrade couldn't even pass the swim lessons they give little kids at the local gym, much less save his own life. Sherlock knows this, and begins moving with the current in a rhythmic breaststroke. Before long, he reaches Lestrade and grabs a fistful of his shirt collar.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock demands over the din of the rushing water. The current seems swifter from here than it did from the bridge, and he can feel unforgiving jagged rocks clipping his legs as he struggles to keep himself and the D.I. above water.

"N-No," Lestrade manages. His lips are already blue from the cold.

Somewhere above, Sherlock can hear John coordinating the rescue efforts, but the sound of his voice fades as both Sherlock and Lestrade are overtaken by a wall of water.

Rock. Sherlock comes to a sudden stop and feels the rough surface of a large rock at his back. He tightens his hold on Lestrade, who reaches for the outcropping, but it is no use. The current has the D.I., and Sherlock is not letting go, so it gets them both.

"Hold your breath," Sherlock orders, trying to clear his field of vision whilst swimming counter-current. "Keep your lungs as full as you can. Buoyancy."

Lestrade is flailing, trying to do his part to get them both toward one of the banks, but he's losing strength. The cold is settling in. He wraps his fingers around one of Sherlock's wrists.

It feels like it's been hours.

_That's the cold_, Sherlock reminds himself. Heart rate and cognitive functions slowing, altering perception of time.

He realises this rescue plan was not very well-thought-out.

_Crack_.

Rock against bone. Pain flashes through his side. Lestrade is wrenched from his grasp and makes a desperate reach for the rocky bank. No use. The current drags him away.

Sherlock slips beneath the water, disoriented by pain and cold and _where the hell is Lestrade_.

This river did not look this angry from above.

Somehow Sherlock finds the surface. Takes a breath just in time to be dragged under again. His fingers brush seaweed. Or – this is a river, is it then riverweed? He can see lights from above. Flashing, white. Torches. John and Donovan and Anderson must be following their progress from the banks, waiting for the opportune moment to try to fish them out.

The banks are high and rocky, though; Sherlock knows there may not be an opportune moment. Dragging somebody out of a river over a rocky ledge is difficult. However, climbing out might be less difficult and more expedient. He must catch Lestrade again, and try to get to the bank. They have a better chance of getting themselves out than relying on the police and John to pull them up.

The river is very wide, Sherlock suddenly realises.

He cannot see Lestrade.

When he breaks the surface again, the D.I.'s name is on his lips. He cannot feel the ends of his fingers anymore, and his shoes feel like they are weighing him down. He kicks them off clumsily and cooperates with the current, desperate to find Lestrade. The bloody idiot can't swim to save his own life; he's probably tiring himself out trying to dog-paddle upstream, when he should be moving downstream, diagonal to the bank. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How did they get into this sodding –

"Ah!" Their bodies collide and it's Sherlock who's crying out because it is agony on his broken rib. Lestrade is completely unconscious. His head is bleeding. Sherlock grabs hold of him round the waist and tries again for the bank. The pair collide with rock again and this time, Sherlock uses all his remaining energy reserves to pull Lestrade to him, placing the inspector between the rock and himself. The swift current presses their bodies together and Sherlock is grateful that Greg is not awake for this.

How completely embarrassing.

Oh, hello, John.

"Here," Sherlock sputters. "Here, here, here, here, here…" _Somebody hear me, please._

John's face reappears over the edge of the bank, and he's reaching down a hand. Sherlock pushes Lestrade toward the bank. He's got one hand locked on Greg's wrist; he lifts, transferring the wrist to John's grip.

"Head wound," Sherlock shouts above the din. "Possible concussion." Water crashes over his face, disorienting him for a moment as he struggles to keep track of the sky. "Bodily injuries to be sure."

Sherlock pushes, John pulls, and Lestrade disappears over the bank.

Thank goodness.

John appears again, reaching for Sherlock. Just in time to watch the river drag him away from his safe haven beside the rock.

The strength has gone out of Sherlock. His muscles are on fire from the strain. He allows the current to carry him a moment, the cold addling his brain to the point that he thinks, _I just need a minute. Just a rest. Then I will make for the bank again._

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His face makes abrupt contact with a rocky outcropping and smashes all his sense away.

There is a long period of nothingness. Blackness. It's nice. Cold, but nice. And then…

"Sherlock!" A pause. There are awful noises in the background. "Come on, breathe, you stupid… arrogant… fucking…"

Hm. Interesting. Sherlock's never been called stupid before.

"Breathe!"

This gets his attention. He can hear that it is John's voice. Furthermore, he can hear that the one-word exclamation is in fact an _order_, because John is saying it in his Captain Watson voice. The Captain Watson voice is much more authoritative and scary than the Doctor Watson voice or the Detective's Assistant voice.

Sherlock's fingers are tingling. How bizarre.

Oh, yes, he was supposed to be doing something – that's right!

With a great sputtering cough, Sherlock struggles to obey the command, sucking air into lungs that are too full of water to comply. Someone pushes him roughly onto his side and he coughs up water and vomits from the strain.

He is very cold, but he has lost the energy for shivering. Someone pries his eyes open one at a time, peering into them. Hello, John. Goodbye, John. Hello, John. Goodbye again.

"Hypothermia," someone declares.

Must've been in the water a lot longer than he'd thought.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

_Yes,_ thinks Sherlock. _Of course I can. I am not deaf, nor have I ever been, except that one time when the park exploded and you had to text me for three days because my eardrums were blown._

Ha, ha. Funny memory. Sherlock smiles vaguely.

The world goes dark again.

* * *

"_We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."_

"_Look at me, I'm in shock. I have a blanket."_

Strange memories. Pain, and someone's voice, and the vague awareness of narcotic painkillers in his system. Blackness again.

* * *

The next time Sherlock wakes, he feels considerably more coherent, though he's acutely aware that he is still being pumped full of drugs. Without opening his eyes, he frowns, struggling to remember something but not entirely sure what. _I'm supposed to be thinking about something_, he muses foggily. _What is it…_?

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice asks tentatively, gently.

Ah! With a gasp, Sherlock's eyes snap open and he moves swiftly to sit up. "Lestrade!"

John's firm hands have more strength in them than Sherlock's entire body, and they force him back down. "Easy," John soothes, "just take it easy. Greg's okay. Mild concussion, hypothermia, a couple minor fractures. He's fine."

Sherlock is engulfed by pain and does as he's told, lying back against the starchy hospital sheets as he listens to the news of Lestrade's condition. His eyes slide closed. _Good_, he thinks, because falling into a river is a stupid way to die.

"You, on the other hand…" John says pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his chair.

Cracking an eye open, Sherlock waits.

"Pneumonia, from inhaling water. Plus the obvious hypothermia, two broken ribs, various lacerations. Three stitches in your head." He lifts an eyebrow and leans forward, uncrossing his arms. "One man is much easier to fish out of a river than two."

"Lestrade doesn't swim," Sherlock states drowsily.

"You almost…" He doesn't say it.

Sherlock opens both eyes and looks over. John's left hand is on top of the bed, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. Sherlock places his hand over it and applies gentle pressure.

A beat. Two. The tension drains from John's posture.

"Tell them to pull the morphine," Sherlock says on a sigh. "It's A Bit Not Good."

He slips back into sleep again.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter has an epilogue! It is called "Against Medical Advice," which is a standalone two-shot. If you are interested, please go to my profile and click the link.**


	3. Seven Percent Solution

**A/N: This story takes place before the series, so there is no John Watson yet. Sad, I know. You'll live. Please enjoy!**

**WARNING: Scenes of a graphic nature. Drug references. Physics. **

* * *

Mycroft feels that something is wrong, but he cannot be sure. And he hates that feeling. It is his business to know things, and when he can't quite get his hands on the knowledge he needs, it frustrates him to no end.

In this particular situation, it is Sherlock at whom his frustration is directed. He can confirm with reliable sources that his brother has not left his dingy flat on Southerby Ave for several days. Furthermore, Sherlock is not answering his mobile – and he is not just ignoring Mycroft. No, that would signal relative normalcy. Lestrade's texts and calls are being overlooked, as well. So all of this knowledge, combined with _that feeling_ in the pit of his stomach, leads Mycroft (the man himself, instead of an assistant) to the doorstep of Sherlock's flat.

He knocks with the end of his umbrella. Three harsh raps. There is no answer. No matter, Mycroft has a key. He fishes it from his pocket and slots it into the lock, feebly telling himself that his brother is asleep and that this is why he has not come to the door. He'll just go in, have a look for himself, and quietly tiptoe out again.

He is staunchly ignoring his instincts and everything he knows about Sherlock that tell him otherwise.

The inside of the flat is clean and sparse – or, it appears to be from the entrance. A few steps inside, however, reveal the disorganised clutter that is Sherlock's life. Case files, obscure books, and photographs litter every possible surface. There is a baking dish with a human liver balanced on top of the table lamp in the sitting room. An entire chemistry setup on the kitchen table steams and bubbles with some sort of translucent blue liquid. Above the sitting room doorway is a stack of papers stuck to the wall with a knife.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft calls cautiously, respecting his younger brother's privacy enough to announce his presence. There is no answer, but Mycroft thinks he hears a faint rustle from the sitting room. He takes a few more steps inside, and what he sees stops his heart in his chest.

Now, Mycroft is an elegant man. He dresses nicely, uses delicate words, and never gets his fingers dirty. His manner is always reserved and gentlemanly, and he is not a person who uses graphic language on any sort of regular basis. Swears, he has always said, are for people who are less creative and intelligent than he.

However, when Mycroft's gaze settles on his brother for the first time in a month, a certain word slips out of his mouth which he has barely uttered before in his life.

"_Fuck_."

* * *

Sherlock is certain he has taken too much this time. It's a strange thing to realise, especially when you're as vastly intelligent as he. This is not a mistake that vastly intelligent people make, but, you see, it just… wasn't… working. Anyone who drugs themselves regularly will build up a tolerance, though, and so you end up putting in more and more… and more. And more. And then, too much.

And then you're on the floor, shivering and vomiting and watching bright orange puppies prance across the room.

Sherlock is still coherent enough to recognise that the puppies are an hallucination, but it is clear that his hold on reality is slipping.

He is standing in the living room when the realisation hits him: _I am in trouble. _His breathing is far too rapid, he is sweating, and he cannot even keep water in his stomach for long. He has the vague sense that he's cold, but not really – as in, if someone were to touch his skin, it would be blazing hot to them. But all he can feel is cold and nausea.

_Call someone_, says a voice in his head. The voice has an odd growl to it, and as he looks up he realises that one of the orange puppies has stopped prancing and is sitting on the coffee table.

"What?" Sherlock whispers.

The puppy cocks its head. "You could die," it points out matter-of-factly. "You should call someone, and maybe then you won't die."

_Hmm._ Sherlock slides to the floor, bracing his back against the sofa as his legs splay out in front of him. His eyes are now on a level with the puppy's. "Who would I call?" he asks it.

The puppy lies down on the glass surface of the coffee table and licks its own nose. "You have a brother. And you have that detective fellow at the Yard."

"That detective fellow from the Yard," Sherlock repeats. _Oh. Lestrade_. "I can't call Lestrade. If he found out, he would never call me again."

The puppy frowns. _Can puppies frown_?

"No, it isn't like that. He employs me. Well, I say 'employ'… He enlists my services, on occasion, to assist him in ongoing investigations." The long string of actual words tires Sherlock out, and he slumps a little.

"Well, there's the brother. Michael?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock corrects, watching the animal from beneath hooded eyes. "Mycroft hates me."

"I don't think so."

"He deliberately makes my life miserable."

"He cares."

"Oh." Sherlock trusts the puppy's judgment, for some reason. Perhaps because the puppy is an element of his subconscious – but, realising this, he wonders, _Why a puppy?_

The puppy disappears. Its prancing fellows pop off into nonexistence a moment later.

Now it is just Sherlock, and the skull on the mantle. He looks to it, expecting it to pick up where the puppy left off, but it does not. It only stares back at him with black, empty eyes. _I cannot help you_, it broadcasts.

Sherlock's heart rate has reached a dangerously low level, and he keels over on the floor.

Some minutes later, there is a knock at the door. Then the door is opening and his name is being called. Sherlock stares at the dust bunnies under the coffee table, and they look like rabid squirrels to him. _Please don't bite me_, he thinks, _because I do hate to have to go to hospital._

A word floats down to him over the noise in his head. "Fuck."

Well, that isn't like you at all, Mycroft. Sherlock thinks he's said it aloud, but he realises he must not have. His mouth didn't move. His tongue feels like it has adhered to the roof of his mouth and he has the vague sense that this is very not right. There is pain behind his eyes. He is certain he is about to vomit again, going by the awful, hideous churning in his stomach.

Mycroft is standing above him, making a phone call. Probably informing the British government of his brother's downfall.

Wait, why?

No, he's calling an ambulance.

Sherlock decides now would be a good time to get up off the floor and assert that he's fine. He tries to move, and all that happens is a horrible twitching of his limbs. His fingers are numb and starkly white. Ooh, strange! He tries to close a fist, but it doesn't happen. He is so far gone that he cannot even fathom the medical explanation for this, even though he most certainly knows what it is.

Mycroft has gone down on his knees beside Sherlock. "No," he says, his voice oddly strained, "don't move."

Hands are on Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him onto his back and Sherlock wants to scream at Mycroft. Doesn't he know that a person in his condition should not be on their back? He could choke on his own vomit and die. Besides, Mycroft's fingers on his skin feel like pinpoints of fire. Oh god, make it stop.

Sherlock moans and throws all of his remaining strength into turning onto his side to vomit, and Mycroft seems at last to understand, and supports him in the recovery position. His mobile phone has skittered across the floor into Sherlock's line of sight. The call is still connected to the emergency dispatch. Wonderful. Some poor girl on a call floor is listening to him retch.

Pain, white hot and unbearable, is coursing through Sherlock's veins like lava. _No, it isn't supposed to work like that_, he tells his body. _It's supposed to numb the pain, not create it. Stupid._

"Shh," Mycroft is saying.

Sherlock doesn't recall making any noise from which to be shushed.

* * *

In reality, Sherlock's slight body is wracked with violent tremors, and he's simultaneously moaning and muttering gibberish under his breath. Mycroft is aware that his brother is deep in the throes of drug overdose and probably can't hear him or process anything he says, but the government official finds himself making soothing shushing noises anyway, if for no other reason than to have something to say. He is too worried by now to even think of all the hateful things he wanted to say to his brother when he was standing on the doorstep. The anger has been frightened out of him.

_He really may die this time_, he realises, one hand on Sherlock's back to keep him from rolling belly-up. The other hand is locked around a slender wrist, feeling the weak pulse beneath his finger tips. It is so lame that he can't even feel it half the time, and so he shifts his position, practically kneeling on top of Sherlock so that he can place a hand against his chest.

Sherlock's breathing is coming in short hitches, and Mycroft realises abruptly that his little brother is in pain. This had not occurred to him, but it does make sense that dying would be painful.

_Can't think like that_, his brain tells him weakly. _Pull yourself together. Engage him. Keep him conscious. Distract him. Monitor his heart rate and ensure he is breathing. _

He is reluctant to move Sherlock from his current position on the floor, but resolves that he must. He can't stay in this awkward position for the six minutes it will take for an ambulance to arrive, and he knows he needs to do a better job of trying to keep Sherlock awake. He doesn't know why, but he feels allowing him to slip into unconsciousness could be the worst possible decision to make, even if it might ease the young man's suffering.

Sherlock's eyes roll back.

Mycroft puts his hands beneath his brother's arms and pulls him sideways, away from the pool of vomit on the floor. He braces himself against the back of the sofa in almost the exact same position Sherlock was sitting in not twenty minutes ago, and pulls Sherlock up close to him so that Sherlock is half lying between his legs, his upper body against him. They sit like this, back-to-chest, as Mycroft anxiously awaits an ambulance.

* * *

Unconsciousness is threatening to overtake Sherlock. Well, to him, it's less like 'threatening' and more like 'promising' because he really, _really_ wants to go to sleep now. His body is exhausted and he's in so much pain and he's certain he may vomit yet again, and he doesn't want to do that in front of Mycroft. Well, okay, he's already done it, but maybe he doesn't want to do it in front of Mycroft _twice_.

But then he's moving. Mycroft is pulling him up a little from the floor, and even in his semiconscious state he's eventually aware of the rapid thump of his brother's heart against his own back. "Mycroft," he breathes out. The pain is incredible. Just moving this far was like setting his flesh on fire. He is suddenly very warm.

Where have the puppies gone? They were nice.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says firmly, one hand splayed out against Sherlock's chest. Finding a pulse in his wrist has become too difficult, apparently; no doubt the pulse point in his throat is too awkward to reach from this position.

Sherlock's chest jumps as he struggles to take in a full breath. His body is in spasm.

"Sherlock – tell me what day it is."

Oh, how dreadfully dull. But… good question, what day _is_ it? "Wednesday," he hazards a guess.

"Friday," Mycroft corrects. A pause while he searches for something more substantial. "Sherlock, what is Bell's Theorem?"

"Energy levels of…" he starts, and then realises he's incorrect. A rush of something dizzy and white overcomes him. When is he ever wrong? He reaches into the depths of his addled brain and starts again. "No physical theory of…"

"Focus," commands Mycroft. Sherlock's diaphragm spasms painfully. "Breathe, Sherlock. Bell's Theorem."

"Of… local hidden variables…"

Mycroft allows a moment to pass, and then encourages him, "Can ever…"

"…Reproduce all… of the… the…"

"Predictions."

"Predictions… of… quantum… mechanics…"

"Good," Mycroft murmurs, "good." His lips brush against Sherlock's ear, and he breathes slowly and deliberately through his mouth in an attempt at encouraging his brother to do the same.

Sherlock mumbles something about _quantum entanglement_.

"Noether's Theorem," urges Mycroft.

"Don't… know that one…"

"Liar," Mycroft presses. "You spent all of last month studying physics for God-knows-what-reason, you know all of these things. Noether's first theorem. Conservation law. Go."

"A-Any… differentiable symmetry… of the action of a physical system…" Sherlock pauses, groans in pain, and sucks down a ragged breath. "Has a corresponding… con… conservation… law…"

"When did Emmy Noether prove her theorem?" Mycroft's knowledge of physics is being pushed to its extreme limit. Not his area.

"She… proved it in 1915. And… published in 1918. Of course." Sherlock's eyes are rolling back dangerously again.

Mycroft has run out of theorems.

The ambulance has arrived outside of the flat.

* * *

Sherlock wakes some twenty-eight hours later to the sound of his own breathing, slow and rhythmic. In the background he is somewhat aware of the awful _beep-beep_ of a heart monitor and the hum of an air conditioner. His head is positively pounding, but he knows that he won't be given any sort of chemical relief for his discomfort. Not with Mycroft pulling all the puppet strings.

"Good morning, little brother."

Oh, speak of the devil. Sherlock pries his eyelids open with sheer force of will and blinks against the harsh light. The fluorescents above his bed send stabbing pain through his skull, and he chokes and groans and closes his eyes again, tightly.

_Click_. Mycroft shuts off the lights.

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief and tries again at opening his eyes. Much to his surprise, it is far less painful the second time. He swallows, and finds that his throat is raw. A straw appears far too close to his line of vision and he manages to catch it between his teeth. The water is cold and jarring and brings him to full wakefulness.

"We must have a talk," Mycroft is saying now, sitting back down in the stiff-backed chair beside the bed. He is fixing Sherlock with a stern look, but there is obvious pain in his dark-liquored eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees – not because he doesn't mind his dear big brother meddling, but rather because he knows that it is inevitable. After all, he is trapped in a hospital bed with very little motor control at his disposal. How could he refuse.

"You remember, then?" prompts the elder Holmes.

"Unfortunately."

"Sherlock, I cannot do this again. I cannot watch you deliberately waste yourself into nothingness. Are you aware how close you came to death?" The words, phrased in a way that would normally indicate concern, are spoken with coldness. Mycroft hides behind a false façade of detachment.

Finally, Sherlock looks at his brother. Really looks at him. He takes a shaking breath to speak, but no words come out. He tries again. "I know…" is all he says.

For now, it will have to be enough. He cannot keep his eyes open any longer.

Mycroft feels like he has gotten through. To an outsider, the conversation might have seemed wildly unproductive, but since all the usual arguing and excuses were replaced with a simple _I know_, Mycroft is certain that this is progress. He sighs, touches his brother's hand briefly, and watches him lapse back into sleep.

_Beep-beep_, says the monitor by the bed, and Mycroft silently clings to that sound as it resonates into the evening hours.

* * *

**A/N: Oh! Wanted to let you all know that due to the overwhelming support of an epilogue to "Shock Blanket", I will be publishing one tomorrow evening as a standalone one-shot. Keep an eye on my profile for the link.** **Thanks everyone for all the feedback! -H.**


	4. Sometimes Dull is Good

The pavement is painfully hot against Sherlock's cheek. He can feel the coarse grain of it against his skin, harsh and unforgiving. He blinks his eyes into focus and watches the heat radiate off the surface of the road. He's drowsy, and he wonders what he's doing on the ground. The prelude from Rachmaninov's _The Bells of Moscow_ plays in his head. Well, _that_ can't be good. Considering the implications of death…

And oh, there it is. Blood on the pavement. His own, no doubt. His surroundings suddenly appear in sharp relief. He hears everything too loudly. The pain hits him then, the agony like a blazing fire ripping through his chest cavity. Stab wound, low left lung. Catastrophic blood loss imminent. Can't breathe. His hands clutch reflexively at the wound.

A pair of knees crashes to the ground beside him, and there is soft swearing somewhere above him. A pair of hands grasps his shoulders, turns him over gently, and swears a little more. Sherlock is staring up into the face of Greg Lestrade.

"It's okay," Lestrade is saying, "it's all right. You did well, Sherlock, Donovan's got him. You're okay. You're okay." The incessant babble is a clear sign that he is not okay. Lestrade should be shouting at him. He did something relatively brash, after all, and pretty reckless. And he's not authorised to pursue suspects, isn't that the argument they're constantly having?

"Shh, don't speak," Lestrade says now, even though Sherlock doesn't recall trying to talk. The DI tears his clothing away from the wound, and even the slight movement of that jars the knife sticking out of his chest, and he chokes on a cry of pain. Lestrade is saying something else, but he can't make out what. And then his fingers are tentatively wrapping around the hilt of the knife and Sherlock is suddenly quite alarmed. He struggles, trying to pry Lestrade's hands away, but he can't talk – can't talk – can't tell him not to – please don't –

"No," John says sharply, appearing on Sherlock's other side. Oh, thank God. John pushes Lestrade's hands away and then Sherlock's too, and examines the wound quickly, expert fingers peeling away the fabric that has stuck to the frankly incredible amount of blood already coating Sherlock's chest. "It's gone right through his lung," John tells Lestrade, "and it's the only reason he's still breathing. Take it out, and his lung will collapse."

Lestrade winces. "What now?"

Sherlock's head lolls in the DI's direction, almost as if he's saying, _I tried to tell you…_ Instead he chokes on blood and bile.

"Get him up a little, so he doesn't choke to death on his own vomit, first. Then we need to stabilise the weapon and try to stop the bleeding." John's voice is brisk and authoritative. Doctor Watson has taken over. He directs Lestrade swiftly toward Sherlock's head, and gives him a few curt instructions. Lestrade takes his place, and the two men work together to pull Sherlock into a semi-upright position, supported by Lestrade.

The movement has Sherlock practically convulsing in pain, his sharp cry ringing through the street as his bootheels dig into the pavement. Then, to add insult to injury, John relieves Sherlock of several inches of his shirt and wraps it around the knife before balling the material up at the base of the blade and pushing down, hard.

A short, guttural scream fills the air and Sherlock realises with some dismay that it has come from him. His back arches in pain as John pushes down on the wound, and he suddenly feels like he's drowning.

"Hold him!"

Lestrade's hands press his shoulders down, but Sherlock's blood-slicked fingers are groping for the wound, trying to pry John's agony-inducing hands away. Away, away, away, oh let it be…

Prelude in C-sharp minor. It's his own body in the coffin. It wasn't the bells of Moscow to begin with, was it? It was death, death all along, his own death, his own funeral, his own body in the coffin – "John!"

"It's all right, Sherlock, they're nearly here. No – no, look at me. _Look at me._ You need to be still, you're only – "

"—_hurts_—"

"I know, Sherlock, I know." John looks then to Lestrade, discusses the ETA of the ambulance with him in a low voice.

Lestrade's face is ashen. He is calm and collected, and he does as John tells him – every order, without question – but his eyes are dead and his skin is an unnatural hue of grey. "You okay?" John asks. His voice is barely above a whisper, but Sherlock hears it.

"Yes," Greg says. His fingers are digging painfully into Sherlock's shoulders, as though he's afraid that letting go will cause him to disappear altogether. Sherlock agrees with this idea, and dreads the moment when he knows Lestrade will have to let go.

A man knows when he is dying.

Sherlock's eyes roll as he takes in everything around him, memorizing, committing to memory. Little details, the important things. The things he wants to take with him. Lestrade's face, John's voice, the incredible azure of the sky. Lestrade's cold hand against his shoulder. The frown of concentration between John's brows. The heat of the day. Donovan's gruff voice from down the street. John's fingers. John's wrists. John's eyes, blue like the sky. John. John. John.

John.

John.

"Sherlock."

* * *

He wakes in the ambulance, because the pain is jarring and the light is bright and the noise is overpowering. Someone's fingers are wrapped around his own. His hand spasms at the realisation, and whoever it is tightens their grip reflexively. Sherlock's other hand is straying toward his chest, trying to find the gaping hole to close it, because the person holding his hand would want that wound to close, but someone is saying, "Shh" and someone else is strapping his hand away at his side. The word 'combative' is tossed around over his head, and Sherlock doesn't know anything about being combative but he trusts the judgment of the gloved hands far more than his own, at this point. What a terrifying feeling.

"Pollen from the hollyhocks… in the tread of his boots…" It takes several seconds for Sherlock to recognise his own voice, thick with pain and drugs.

"It's okay," says John's disembodied voice in his ear. "It's alright, you got him. Donovan arrested him."

Too cold, now, and it's a startling change from the gut-wrenching heat of just a few hours earlier. No, not hours – minutes. Just minutes.

"The girl…"

"I know, Sherlock. That was yesterday." Is that sorrow in John's voice?

The bus sails over a bump in the road, and Sherlock's eyes roll back with the sudden new assault from the knife in his chest. "Oh…"

* * *

Rachmaninov's _Prelude_, when played correctly, ends in a few soft, mournful notes that peter out into silence so exquisite that you can literally feel it resonate through your body. It is these seven notes that drift through Sherlock's mind now as he wakes to the sound of soft voices and the gentle glow of late-evening sun. He opens bleary eyes and sees a speckled ceiling floating above him. The tiles swim in and out of focus in such a way that they seem as if they are creeping into one another, an amorphous mass roiling above him. Jellyfish. Or jelly. Jam. Marmalade.

Oh, these are _good_ drugs. Good but bad. Bad but good. What would it feel like if they were gone? Can't have them, but _oh, how I need them_…

The voices draw his attention – unintentionally; they seem to be unaware of his awakening – and his gaze slides toward the other side of the room, where Lestrade and John are speaking in hushed voices. They are each clutching a steaming paper cup. Coffee for John, tea for Greg. Of course.

But beyond that, Sherlock deduces nothing. His mind is quiet. The details aren't flowing from his friends like they normally would, not adding up to some massive, earth-shattering conclusion about what they've been doing for the past however-many-hours-I've-been-here.

And that is just _wonderful_.

Sherlock smiles.

John notices him then, and fixes him with a quizzical look that is bordering on comical.

"Oi," breathes Lestrade.

"Hello," Sherlock says. The word drags itself out of his mouth. He blinks languidly.

Setting his cup down on the bedside table, John approaches Sherlock and casts a cursory glance at the monitors surrounding him. Then he looks down at his flatmate and smiles thinly. He's tired. It must have been hours. "Do you know that you're an idiot?" he asks in an over-sweetened voice.

Hmm. Nope. "You've… mentioned it…"

Lestrade chuckles and draws level with John by the bed. "Gave us a bit of a scare," he says. "Again."

"Must keep you on your toes," Sherlock intones, eyelids aflutter. "Wouldn't life be dull otherwise?"

Sherlock's two friends answer at the same time.

"Terribly," says John.

"Definitely," says Lestrade.

* * *

**A/N: Rachmaninov's _Prelude_ in C-sharp minor was said to have been inspired by a dream. In the dream, Rachmaninov is at a funeral, walking toward the open coffin to pay his respects. When he draws close to the coffin, he sees that it is he himself lying inside of it. This is what Sherlock means when he associates the piece with death and has a brief breakdown whilst imagining his own coffin. When Rachmaninov wrote it, it was just called 'Prelude' and was part of a set of five pieces comprising **_**Morceaux de fantaisie. **_**Only later was the piece titled **_**The Bells of Moscow**_** by the Americans in 1918 (and this is what Sherlock is referring to with the line "It wasn't the bells of Moscow to begin with, was it?"). Prior to that, the Prelude had been called by its given name, as well as **_**The Burning of Moscow, The Day of Judgment, **_**and **_**The Moscow Waltz.**_** The piece was so popular that audiences demanded it as an encore at many of Rachmaninov's performances, by shouting collectively, "C-Sharp! C-Sharp!"**


	5. Eliminate the Impossible: Part 1

**A/N: Okay, this 'near-death experience' is going to be presented in two parts or possibly three, because I got carried away. So it's long, involved, and a little tedious (for me, not you). Also, I'm going to be stretching some chemical and medical boundaries in the second part, so be prepared for that. Finally, please be aware that this story is DIFFERENT from the others in that it switches between John's and Sherlock's POV (this will be marked with a break divider) and does not flow in a format anywhere near the stream-of-consciousness style the first four chapters are written in. **

**The case referenced in this fic is entirely my own fabrication.**

**Please enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock knows that something is amiss when he opens bleary eyes to the bedside clock readout of 11:22. He never sleeps this late. Or this long. He closes his eyes and tries to come up with a logical reason for having done so. The memories of the day previous are a blur of frantic activity, a disjointed whirl of colours and sounds. He remembers standing in Lestrade's office. He remembers puttering about in the lab at Bart's. He remembers a mad dash to Chiswick, a struggle in an office building, and a chase across rooftops. He remembers John's gun going off. He remembers tackling a man to the ground (well, the roof, really), and fists flying, and a second assailant coming to the suspect's aid. He remembers starting to lose that fight, until John appears at his side, and somehow through all the chaos they manage to subdue both men. He remembers breathless reassurances and Lestrade's scolding.

_Well, that explains the exhaustion and the soreness_, he thinks, satisfied. He stretches, groans, and stands. The room wobbles for a minute and Sherlock blinks rapidly to clear his vision before pulling on his dressing gown and heading to the sitting room. The case is still open, and there is work to be done.

"Morning," he calls in the general direction of the kitchen, from which he can hear the vague clatterings which indicate John's presence there.

John pokes his head out. "Morning…" he says. He sounds distracted, but Sherlock pays him no mind, already thumbing his laptop open and navigating to a search engine. He Googles _Christopher Lucerne_ (suspect number one), _James Parker _(suspect number two), and _Rush Street Bank and Trust_ before he feels John's gaze locked on him, boring into his skin with such intensity he might as well be peering _into_ him. He looks up expectantly and is met with a very quizzical expression.

At this point, John has still said nothing aside from _Morning_.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompts, able to read from his expression that he wants to say something and simply has yet to formulate the words. John must be feeling extra tired this morning too, going by the dumbfounded look on his face.

"You… slept," John points out, a bit unnecessarily. "All night. In your bed."

Sherlock fails to see how this is relevant. "Yes," he agrees, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for his flatmate to get to the bloody point.

John glances at his watch and then at the clock on the mantel and asks, "Are… Are you alright?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock says impatiently, dropping his eyes back to the screen. "Why wouldn't I be?" His attention is already back on his search; he is only half-listening to John.

"Oh, I donno," John says with false nonchalance, "perhaps because you're _you_, and we all know that _you_ don't sleep in the middle of a case."

Sherlock hums. "I was tired."

It is a rare thing for Sherlock to admit such a weakness, and John decides not to press his luck. He sighs and returns his attention to what he was doing. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea."

They pass approximately forty-five minutes in amicable silence – John eating his toast and reading the paper, Sherlock tapping away at the keyboard between quiet sips of tea. Occasionally the quiet is punctuated by Sherlock's phone _ping_ing with a text alert, or Sherlock himself mumbling about fingerprints and seborrhea.

"Why d'you suppose they did it?" John asks at last. The question has been on his mind since yesterday.

Sherlock looks up from his work and fixes John with a level gaze. "The bank heist?"

"Well, yeah, but specifically – why there, why yesterday? It was fairly common knowledge that you and half of Scotland Yard would be at that press conference just around the corner. And they didn't even attempt to conceal themselves. You were able to pick up their trail and track them down in a matter of hours."

"You think they were trying to get our attention."

"Your attention. Yeah."

"It's highly likely," Sherlock concludes, not seeming the least bit surprised by the theory. He passes a hand over his face as though he's become extremely weary all over again.

"Moriarty?" John offers darkly.

Sherlock shakes his head slowly and presses his fingers into his temples. "No, I don't think so. This little… _demonstration_ is beneath him. If it was Moriarty who was after my attention, he would have acquired it in much more artful a fashion, one that wouldn't run the risk of boring me. People would be dead."

That hangs in the air for a minute.

"So then… someone else wants your attention."

"Mm. Mine, ours. Scotland Yard's."

"But why?"

"That's the question, isn't it…"

"Sherlock?" John leans forward, the fingers of one hand gently tapping his flatmate's knee. "Sherlock, you okay?"

"Mm? Yes. Fine. Thinking." Sherlock massages his temples for a moment longer, squeezing his eyes shut, and then bursts into a flurry of activity. The laptop ends up discarded on the sofa as he flies to the bedroom for his clothes. "Must go to Bart's," he says briskly, changing into day clothes behind a barely-closed bedroom door. "Coming?"

* * *

John spends the cab ride to Bart's in quiet speculation of his friend. Sherlock, for his part, is mostly quiet, typing away on his phone or occasionally bouncing some wild idea off John. John makes neutral listening sounds like "mm-hm" or "oh?" or "hmm" without giving much feedback. His is somewhat concerned over the state of his friend – his trained eye does not miss the little signs that Sherlock hides or ignores. His normally graceful movements are slightly halting; not enough that a layperson would notice, but enough that John does. Then there is the matter of last night, during which Sherlock not only went all the way to his own bed, but slept solidly (it would seem) from approximately one AM until after eleven this morning. He has every reason to be tired after the events of the night previous, but it isn't like him to shut down in the middle of a case. Still, John doesn't bring it up for now because truthfully, he has no real evidence that Sherlock is suffering from anything more serious than tiredness and a mild case of malnutrition.

When they get to St. Bart's, John acts as lab assistant and all is as it should be. Well, mostly – Molly isn't around to order about or shoot derisive comments at, so John must fill in for her. It's tedious work, but it gives John something to do and he's just as good as Sherlock at doling out the insults, so they are able to enjoy the occasional friendly banter in between data collection.

John tests the pH balance of several very unappetizing looking substances whilst Sherlock gazes into the eyepieces of a microscope, and when the silence has stretched on long enough, John finally asks, "Anything interesting?"

Sherlock huffs out a sigh in clear agitation. "No. You?"

"No," John agrees, extracting a pH strip from a petri dish and examining it in the light.

"I was certain there would be a correlation between the..."

"Between the what?" John prompts, barely registering that his friend has slammed to a screeching halt. He peers critically into a seventh petri dish and tests its pH balance before he notes the silence. He looks up. "Sherlock?"

The detective does not respond. He is sitting back a little from the microscope, staring into the middle distance above it with eyes that are glazed and unfocussed. Normally, this would not be a cause for alarm – the sudden silence and faraway look are symptoms of what John refers to as a brainwave: sudden clarity in the middle of the research, in which the pieces of the puzzle click together neatly and abruptly, and after which Sherlock usually utters a borderline-orgasmic "ohh" as he arrives at the solution. Only this time it's different. The look on his face is not so much faraway as it is vacant, and there is no utterance of sudden omniscience; there is just an empty gaze and his fingers gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white.

John rounds the table and places a cautious hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock starts slightly and then looks at him with an expression that is so utterly lost, John nearly slings an arm around his shoulders. Instead, he says, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock grinds out, visibly struggling to shake himself out of the temporary lapse of mind. "I'm – nothing, it's nothing."

"Stop it," John admonishes, placing both his hands on the narrow shoulders and turning Sherlock to face him. "Look at me." He peers into those steely grey eyes, noting their glassy texture and the roadmap of red lines etched across the whites. Then he lays a hand across Sherlock's brow and frowns. "You have a fever," he states, with something like accusation edging into his stern voice. "How long have you been feeling ill?"

"I haven't been," Sherlock replies, and the confusion on his face is so genuine that John has no choice but to believe him. "I have been slightly tired today," he admits, "but nothing beyond that."

John silently hypothesises that Sherlock simply didn't notice any symptoms that might have developed over the past few days. "Okay," he says, placing a guiding hand on Sherlock's arm. "We're going home."

"No!" protests Sherlock, twisting his arm out from John's grasp. "I have – I have – sludge to analyse."

Grimacing at the very statement, John collects a few of the slides and puts them into Sherlock's hand. "Analyse them at home," he orders, eyes wide and jaw set – _I dare you to argue with me._

Sherlock seems to sense the threat and he pockets the slides, mumbling something about 'transport' and 'insignificant' which John waves off impatiently.

He is two steps from the door when he slides to the floor, an elegant crumple of thick black coat and swirling sapphire scarf. John is too far away to catch him, but the detective does not keel over entirely; instead he falls into an awkward crouch, head bowed and shoulders hunched, arms curled protectively inward.

John is by his side in a moment, scanning Sherlock with a trained eye. He notes the sheen of cold sweat on his brow, the distinct signs of pain in the thinning of his lips and the tightening of the corners of the eyes. He's dizzy, too, or seems to be from the vacant gaze of disorientation he is currently directing at the floor. "What hurts?"

"It was only for a moment," Sherlock says faintly. "I'm fine."

John sees the hand clutched to Sherlock's middle, and deduces that a sudden stomach cramp like that is a precursor to nausea. He cycles through his mind to patients he's seen at the surgery over the last ten days or so. There have been a lot of instances of flu; perhaps he brought it home to Sherlock. He groans inwardly. Sherlock is a challenging person to live with on a regular basis. A sickly Sherlock is going to be downright impossible. "Come on," he says in a voice that reflects his resignation. He wraps a strong hand around Sherlock's upper arm and hauls him to his feet. "Let's get you home before you start contaminating evidence."

Sherlock nods wordlessly and shrugs out of John's grasp, heading unsteadily for the door.

The lack of argument worries John more than the obvious symptoms.

The ride home is silent. John watches Sherlock from the other side of the backseat, noting the way he stares unseeingly out the window, his forehead pressed up against the cool glass and his hands folded limply into his lap. When the cab stops, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, and John has to shake his shoulder before he peels his face away from the window. His steps are shaky at best as he precedes John up the stairs to their flat.

His condition is deteriorating quickly. This only solidifies John's confidence in his earlier diagnosis: flu. No doubt Sherlock's less-than-desirable eating and sleeping habits and his constant traipsing across London in all sorts of weather certainly haven't helped.

Helping Sherlock off with his coat and scarf, John can feel the pyrexia emanating from his body. He looks pale and uncomfortable. John considers suggesting a cool shower, but he reminds himself that what Sherlock feels right now is not the heat of the fever, but the chills caused by it. He will want an overly warm shower, not a chilly one, and that will certainly not be helpful in the least. "Bed or sofa?" John prompts.

Sherlock reaches for his discarded coat, where the slides sit comfortably in the left pocket. He is shaking his head. John wraps a hand easily around one of the slim wrists.

"No," he tells Sherlock in a firm tone. "Absolutely not."

"I need to work."

"You need to rest. Bed or sofa?"

Sherlock makes a vague gesture toward the sofa and heads in that direction to flop down onto it unceremoniously.

John looks slightly triumphant. "I'll make tea."

* * *

Sherlock is not certain how this came about. He does not get sick. He just doesn't. There isn't time for it, and anyway – he's generally a very clean and well-groomed human being, despite the obvious risks posed by his chosen profession, so he's not lying when he makes the general statement to anyone who will listen: _I don't get sick._

But he cannot deny the obvious symptoms. A tremor has set into his body, beginning low in his belly and radiating outward – fever chills. He is cramped and nauseated and a dull ache has begun to throb just behind his eye sockets. His head is in a fog and he cannot seem to organise his thoughts. Something, clearly, is not right. The malaise creeping up his spine is unnerving. Flu, John had said, and Sherlock is inclined to believe him, but wouldn't there have been preceding symptoms? He wonders vaguely if he has the plague. He lifts a hand to the lymph nodes in the hollow beneath his jaw and ticks that off the list. He was tired, so tired, after they got back last night, but that was just from the strain of the fight, wasn't it? Compounded by the fact he hadn't slept in days – right?

Perhaps malaria. Meningitis. Oh, no. Probably picked it up from Bart's. Hospitals are alarmingly filthy places.

He is foggily aware of John asking him to do something. His chin has dropped to his chest – he's so tired, he just wants to sleep, and whatever John wants can surely wait, so he groans his disapproval and lifts his head to let it fall into the back of the sofa.

Then John's fingers are ghosting over his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt, and his eyes flicker open. He levels his icy gaze at John in as questioning an expression as he can muster in his present state.

"You need to change into something more comfortable. Long sleeves won't do anything good for your fever."

"I'm _cold_," Sherlock reminds him.

"I know you _feel _cold, but your body is overheating." John speaks with the patience of a paediatrician addressing a young patient. He pushes a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms into Sherlock's hands. "I can help you, or you can dress yourself."

"I'll do it," he snaps, but there is no strength in his voice, so it comes out far more harmless than he had hoped.

"Good," John agrees, and returns to the kitchen to do the tea.

Sherlock undresses himself, pauses to gather strength, and then pulls on the fresh set of clothes. He is disgusted with how right John was – this is much more comfortable. With a sigh, the debilitated detective sinks back down onto the sofa, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His head falls back again. There is something close to resignation in the way he deflates into the cushions.

"Hold still." John's voice is suddenly very close, and he is sticking something cold and uncomfortable into Sherlock's ear. Tympanic thermometer, he realises with a long-suffering sigh.

"_Really_," Sherlock huffs.

With practised ease, John ignores him. The thermometer bleats its final reading and he frowns into the display. "Thirty-seven-point-eight. Not terrible, but not great, either." Then he is pushing a cup of tea and a couple tablets of paracetamol into Sherlock's hands. "Drink this, take these, then you can rest. Okay?" John purses his lips and goes off in search of a blanket.

Sherlock does as he is told without argument. There is no power left for argument. As plaintively as the sludge slides might be calling, he cannot rouse himself from his current position to do anything more than sip tea. He finishes the cup, staunchly ignoring the unhappy noise his stomach makes in response, and curls up on the couch. He is barely awake to perceive John draping a quilt over him a few minutes later.

The next day, Sherlock has only enough energy to consume the water and toast that John forces on him, and look at two of the slides. After that he drags himself back to the couch and makes a concerted effort to pretend at working out the case, and then falls asleep for the rest of the day.

* * *

John is concerned, but not worried. Sherlock's fever is still within manageable range, and as long as he doesn't do anything stupid, it's likely he will recover from this fairly quickly. And so far, he's being a model patient: he does as John orders, and he sleeps. A lot. Actually, that's the concerning part. Sherlock never does as he's ordered if he can help it, and he doesn't generally sleep – at least, not like this. And certainly not in the middle of a case involving a bank heist and a possible criminal mastermind who might very well be out to get him.

The morning of the third day, John pads through the living room and looks over at Sherlock's nest of blankets on the sofa, notes its distinct lack of consulting detective. He chews his tongue and takes a cursory glance around the room. Coat on the rack, phone on the coffee table, laptop open on the floor by the sofa. So he's in the flat, at least. Perhaps he's finally starting to feel better and has –

John's thoughts are sliced clean through by the sharp sound of someone retching violently in the bathroom. _Perhaps not then_, he thinks to himself. He frowns and wonders whether or not he is strong enough to physically drag Sherlock to A&E.

He taps on the door of the washroom with a hesitant finger. "All right in there?"

"Fine," Sherlock spits, his voice rough and tense.

John hears the toilet flush and then the tap running, and retreats to the living room. He is halfway through his paper when he observes Sherlock emerge some minutes later and shakily lower himself back down onto the sofa. John sits forward, reaching for the thermometer on the table, but Sherlock flaps a hand at him.

"Don't bother, I just took it," he sighs, curling back up beneath his quilt.

"And?"

"Thirty-nine."

John groans sharply and makes a disappointed face.

"No, I won't go to A&E," Sherlock tosses out for good measure.

"I didn't think so," admits his flatmate, sighing as he gets to his feet. "But you will drink water and take medicine and make a reasonable attempt at toast." There is no room for argument, and John turns on his heel to head to the kitchen.

_Burr,_ says Sherlock's phone as John is slotting bread into the toaster.

For a moment – just a moment – it seems like Sherlock might ignore the call. He pokes his curly head out from his cocoon of blankets and glares at the device with enough ire to set the thing aflame, but after a couple more insistent _Burr_s, he reaches out a gangly arm and answers.

John eavesdrops.

"…Yes, of course it's me. No, I've caught cold." A pause. "You heard me perfectly well, Lestrade – now, what do you want?" John can see that Sherlock is slow to process whatever the DI is telling him, because the detective is frowning in concentration at the fireplace. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock sniffs disdainfully and asks, "How did he manage that?" A beat. "…What a severe lack of creativity… Hm? Oh, yes… Irrelevant, tell me what he was wearing at the time… I'll need to look at the body then… Hmm, fascinating…" There are a few more minutes of this, slightly indicative that Sherlock isn't truly interested and only barely listening, but then the detective suddenly perks up. "Say that again," he says urgently into the phone. "Oh… ohh, no, that's… not good at all. You should have told me sooner." He blinks, wide-eyed, at the opposite wall, and speaks in a carefully controlled voice. "Well, Lestrade, because I'm now reasonably certain that I have been poisoned. Good day."

"Wait, _what_?" John comes storming out of the kitchen in time to see Sherlock tossing his phone onto the table and rising quickly to his feet. "Did you just say you think you've been _poisoned_?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He's heading for the bathroom. John follows without thinking.

"Hmm," Sherlock says, standing in front of the mirror. He pulls up his shirtsleeves, searching, apparently not finding what he's looking for. He taps his chin for just a moment, and then drops his pants – and boxers – without warning.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what are you doing?" John demands, reflexively turning his back.

"There it is," breathes Sherlock.

John battles himself for the briefest moment, and then turns round to see Sherlock pressed as close to the mirror as he can get, inspecting something on his left hip via reflection. "There is what?" John demands, somewhat concerned that his friend might be delirious with fever.

"The puncture wound," comes the answer. The long, white fingers pull and press at the even whiter flesh of his low hip. John shuffles closer, ignoring his friend's nakedness as much as possible, and leans in close to see what Sherlock is talking about. Sure enough, there is a tiny bruise, the likes of which a person might get from receiving an injection. In the centre is a slightly raised red puncture mark.

"I don't understand," John confesses, frowning at the injection site. "What is this?"

"I've been poisoned," Sherlock repeats slowly. "In the fight on the rooftops. James Parker, one of the men we subdued and Lestrade arrested that night… Among his personal effects was a syringe of questionable origin. It was sent to the lab for basic tests, and this morning my DNA was flagged on the results." He licks his lips and continues. "The person behind the bank heist isn't trying to get my _attention_. He's trying to get _rid_ of me." Despite this ominous news, Sherlock looks piqued – excited. Flattered, even? His fever-bright eyes are wide.

John's mind is reeling, worried enough for the both of them. "Okay, so what else did the lab find? What did he inject you with?"

"Don't know. Nothing came up in the initial battery of tests. I'm certain Lestrade will now order a whole new set of screens." Sherlock bends over and pulls his trousers back up over his hips. "James Parker will be of no use, at the very least – he was found dead in his cell this morning. Apparent suicide."

"Well, now you _have_ to go to A&E."

"No." Sherlock shakes his head, and grips either side of the sink with his hands. The excitement of the discovery has drained him, and now his complexion is grey. "Whatever he's done to me, it won't be that easy to fix. This is something clever, John." Clever. Sherlock says this whenever he wants to indicate that something is above the capabilities of ordinary human beings. "If there is any curing this – _if_ – then it's up to me…"

"If! What do you mean, if?"

"…Precisely what you think…"

"Be realistic, Sherlock – that's an awful lot of trouble to go to just to poison you. He could have cornered you coming out of Bart's one day and saved himself a lot of time and personnel."

"There is something here that we're… not seeing…"

John notices Sherlock's fingers go slack just in time, and lunges forward to catch Sherlock before he hits his head on the sink. Unprepared for the sudden armful of consulting detective, John staggers backward and smashes into the wall. This momentarily knocks the breath out of him, and he coughs as he struggles to recover without dropping his burden. Once he manages to get his feet under him, he drags Sherlock back to the couch – no small feat. Sherlock is thin, but ten-stone-five spread out over six feet is still unwieldy if not heavy.

With Sherlock settled back on the couch and thoroughly unconscious but certifiably stable, John takes to pacing the sitting room, hands clasped behind his back as he struggles with what to do. He has a feeling Sherlock is right – if the poison is elusive, then common doctors won't be able to help him. In fact, he'd be better off doing the research himself until he's physically unable. More progress would certainly be made that way.

But John can't help panicking. Sherlock seemed to rather admire whoever it was who had the wherewithal to send an assassin after him in such a fashion, but John is far from amused or impressed. He is worried. From what Sherlock said, there's a very good chance he is dying. _Dying_, not struggling with flu or a bad cold. Dying, dead, dying.

Sherlock's phone rings, as if on cue. John picks it up.

"Poisoned?" Lestrade's voice demands.

"That's what he said," John replies, his voice strained.

"Look, I'm rushing the tests, but it's still going to be a few hours. How sure are we about this?"

"Sherlock said poisoned. He seems convinced. I can't very well disagree with him. You were the one who said his DNA is on the syringe." John pins the phone in place with his shoulder and sits on the edge of the couch to take his unconscious flatmate's temperature. "Although I can't help hoping it's flu and coincidence… Maybe Parker was being kind and gave him a tetanus injection." He winces at his own poor humour, extracts the thermometer from Sherlock's ear, and glares at the reading. "I'll do a throat culture."

"I'm sure that's on his to-do list."

"You're probably right."

"So what now?"

"Now, I try to rouse him and get him to Bart's."

"What?"

"He's out cold. Dizzy spell from the flurry of activity."

"Meet you at the lab?"

"See you there."

John drops the phone back onto the coffee table and leans over Sherlock's unconscious form, examining him critically. The fever has not gone up, but neither has it gone down, and the activity Sherlock is about to undergo will no doubt hurl it up into numbers John doesn't even want to think about. Trying to cure himself could very well kill Sherlock – is that irony? He taps the detective's face roughly. "Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up."

"Mm," says Sherlock.

"Come on."

Not a moment later, Sherlock bolts upright, eyes wide and glassy. He turns to look at John. "I have to go to Bart's," he says sharply, his speech limping slightly.

"Yes," John agrees. "No doubt an ordinary doctor will kill you."

"Precisely. John, get your coat. The game is on."

* * *

**A/N: I don't love the end of this chapter, but hopefully the next one will make up for it. Let me know if you think of ways it can be improved. I'll try to have the second part up tomorrow. Cheers! -H. **


	6. Eliminate the Impossible: Part 2

**A/N: Part two, out of three! Yes, I've decided there will be three. Insert here: second warning about how I will be stretching the laws of chemistry and medicine. **

**To my regular readers (and anyone else who cares): please be advised I will be out of the country with no way of communicating or updating next week (1 July – 8 July). It's posted on my profile, but I thought I'd write it here too, for maximum visibility. And, in case anyone hasn't heard, I am now ACCEPTING PROMPTS AND REQUESTS of pretty much any kind. As always, please send requests to my inbox, rather than posting them in the reviews. Thanks!**

**Again, POV switches between John and Sherlock, separated by break dividers. John goes first. Please enjoy!**

* * *

"What can we cross off the list?"

"All of the ones on page one, as well as the obvious ones from page two – hemlock, cyanide, ricin, mercury."

John flips through the notebook. "So we've ruled out ricin? Since when?"

"I estimate it has been approximately fifty-six hours since the poison was introduced, and I am still conscious and functional. Ricin generally kills within seventy-two hours at the outside, with debilitating symptoms occurring at the eight-hour mark."

John and Sherlock are in the lab at Bart's, poring over medical texts and running tests on vials of Sherlock's blood. They came just as soon as Sherlock recovered from his episode; Sherlock is still clad in his pyjamas and wrapped in a quilt. John is dressed, but he looks haggard. The room is cluttered and reflects their combined botheration as they struggle to come up with answers that do not wish to be found.

The white board by the window has become a central focal point, a vibrant playbill of Sherlock's symptoms laid out in orange dry-erase pen. In the corner of the room there is a pile of medical equipment. John nicked as much as he could from the hospital's inventory when they arrived, so that he could monitor Sherlock's condition and be prepared for any unfortunate eventualities. It is a precaution Sherlock cannot afford not to take. With so much precious time wasted thinking he had the flu, they are now in a race against the clock, because – in Sherlock's own words – if the poison is meant to kill (and surely it is), it will do so very soon. There is no doubt about that.

There has been no message from whoever employed Christopher Lucerne and James Parker in the robbery of the Rush Street Bank and the eventual poisoning of the world's only consulting detective. _If the poison was meant as a warning, they would have contacted us_, Sherlock had said in the quiet of the taxi, when John tried to argue that the poison wasn't necessarily deadly. _They would make demands, dangling the carrot – that is, the antidote – as an incentive. More than forty-eight hours have passed; there is no message and there won't be one. The object is clear: assassination._

Thus, time is of the essence.

Unfortunately, progress towards finding the cure – or even figuring out what ails Sherlock – is nonexistent.

Sherlock puts his head down on the table next to the microscope he had been peering into. John hears the gentle _thud_ of Sherlock's forehead coming into contact with the surface and frowns to himself. Sherlock's condition seems to worsen with each passing hour. The fever is holding at 39 degrees, thanks to a well-timed dose of paracetamol, but he is nauseated, occasionally disoriented, and obviously exhausted. The strain of the last hour of research has already started to show.

John glances up from slotting a vial of blood into a centrifuge and observes his flatmate's shudder. He adjusts the settings on the machine and leaves it to do its work as he strides over to where Sherlock has apparently deflated. He places a gentle hand against his shoulder. "All right?"

"Chest hurts," Sherlock says to the table.

"Where?"

Sherlock lifts his head and presses a hand to his sternum. He takes an experimental breath and winces accordingly, then makes an irritated noise in his throat and shakes his head. "Whoever… Whoever is behind this is… clever. And more than aware of my capabilities, if they are targeting me specifically. No doubt they will have selected an agent that is elusive to testing, and potentially incurable."

"That would be an expensive and risky enterprise," John says thoughtfully, reaching for his stethoscope and warming the head on his shirt. "It would have been simpler to put a sniper outside the flat."

"Mm. Not if the method needs to be specific. Perhaps he's sending a message."

"You said there isn't a message."

"No, not for me. But for you, for Lestrade. For London. For anyone who will listen. I have the distinct impression we are missing something. There must be a reason to dispense with me slowly rather than quickly and efficiently…" Sherlock trails off, only to hiss in displeasure as John slides his hand under his shirt and presses the metal head of the stethoscope against his back. "Cold," he grates out, stiffening under John's fingers.

"It isn't," John assures him, placing a steadying hand against his chest. "It only feels like it because you're overly warm. Take a breath." The room falls silent as John listens tensely, waiting to add another symptom to the board. Sherlock's breath rushes through his ears and he is relieved to detect only the faintest crackle on the lower left side. It isn't a good thing, but it could be much, much worse. Nodding to himself, John conducts a swift cursory examination of the rest of his friend and then goes to the board to write _fine rales in lower left lung base on auscultation_ and caps the pen.

"I thought so," Sherlock murmurs. He gives a chilled shudder and pulls the blanket back up around his shoulders.

John knuckles his eyes and returns to the centrifuge.

* * *

Sherlock feels like a ticking time bomb. He will implode at any minute. Each passing hour is spent in wait for the next symptom to appear.

The white board has become a thing of wonder.

He stares at it, eyes scanning the bright orange words written out in John's spidery handwriting. John, dear John, organised John, has separated his symptoms into categories. _General, Cardiac, Respiratory, _and _Neurological_. This was the first thing he did when they arrived, stating that it would be easier for them to have a visual running list with which to cross-reference the medical texts. Sherlock didn't say so, but he finds it brilliant. Positively brilliant.

Something like sandpaper grates against the inside surface of his skull, and the rhythm seems to culminate in a series of keening notes that say, _You should tell him. You won't get a chance when you're dead._

Is that a neurological symptom? Sherlock isn't sure.

"It's brilliant," he says aloud, voice faraway as he stares at the board.

John looks up from the centrifuge. "What is?"

The door bursts inward before Sherlock can answer. He glances over, and sees that the hurricane responsible is none other than Lestrade. Who comes in waving a packet of papers over his head. Who stops dead when he lays eyes on Sherlock.

"You _do_ look awful," he states, his face crumpling in sympathy.

"Find anything?" Sherlock prompts, nodding toward the papers in the DI's hand.

"Not a thing," Lestrade replies, looking to each of them in turn as he slaps the paperwork down onto the table beside Sherlock's hand. "Tests on the syringe all came back negative or inconclusive. According to this, that syringe was loaded with nothing more than saline."

Sherlock hums and flips through the paperwork.

Lestrade looks at the board and glances at John with a worried expression. John reflects it back at him.

After a few moments of quiet, Sherlock sighs and drops the test results onto the table again. "The answer is here somewhere," he declares, his gaze encompassing the entire lab. He glances at the DI and at John and then directs a bleary gaze at the white board once more. He feels as if it's staring him in the face. Here I am, poison number two-hundred-twenty-five, and my name is -

"We'll figure it out," Lestrade says, shedding his coat and beginning to roll up his sleeves. "How can I help?"

* * *

The seizures begin around lunchtime.

Sherlock hasn't mentioned feeling any more unwell, but John can sense it, even from across the room. The detective's skin has taken on an eerie grey tinge, and he seems to be struggling to concentrate. He shakes his head when John quietly asks if he's to be ill, but the shoulder beneath John's hand quivers. Sherlock shrugs him off and asks him for the results of the acid test.

Just two minutes pass before Sherlock turns utterly white and his eyes go glassy. John sees it, and pushes away from the computer. "Sherlock?" There is no answer, and he rises to cross the room, to try to push Sherlock back into that chair before he knocks himself out on the floor. "No – Sherlock, don't get up, you're – "

Too late. In a state of confusion, the detective rises from his place at a microscope, his gaze unfocussed and faraway. Half a second later, his legs crumple beneath him.

Lestrade, who is closer, spins to catch him under the arms, a surprised obscenity passing his lips as he staggers under the sudden weight, and starts to lower Sherlock's limp body to the floor.

John joins him as the muscles in Sherlock's neck suddenly stiffen, the first signs of an impending convulsive episode. Lowering Sherlock fully to the floor, he then shoulders Lestrade out of the way and lunges for one of their discarded coats, balling it up and sliding it under Sherlock's head as the spasms begin. Training takes over and he assesses the detective's condition with a keen eye. He glances up at Lestrade, who has gone white as the detective's body starts to convulse rapidly. "Clear the area," he orders briskly.

Lestrade does as he's bid without complaint, pushing chairs and equipment out of the way. John is kneeling on the floor beside Sherlock's head, making no attempt to steady him as his back arches and his limbs twitch with increasing intensity. It is a grotesque and painful-looking ordeal, but worst of all is the low, rough sort of intermittent moan that starts issuing from somewhere deep in Sherlock's throat as the seizure reaches its peak.

"What's happening?" Lestrade asks tensely, dropping down beside John. "Can't you do anything?"

"Seizure," John replies with the easy authority of a doctor, despite his pounding heart. He finds himself speaking for his own reassurance as much as Lestrade's. He doesn't know it, but his own face is a mask of anxiety, a deep-set frown appearing between his brows. "There's nothing to be done except ensure he doesn't bash into anything." He glances over at the DI fleetingly, registers that the sickened look on his face is due in part to the sound Sherlock is making. To someone untrained, it would sound like Sherlock is in absolute agony, but that isn't the case. "It's not hurting him, Greg. It's just his vocal chords contracting and relaxing, just like the rest of him is doing. He's not in pain."

Lestrade nods, but doesn't look convinced.

John looks at his watch and waits. Three minutes, that's all the time the seizure lasts, but it seems to drag on forever. John has seen dozens of these over his many years practising medicine. He has calmed anxious parents who panicked about similar episodes, reassured worried spouses who feared grave neurological diagnoses, and coached brand-new nurses through seizure first-aid on their first live patients. Never has he felt such pain at seeing it in the past. As the seconds crawl by, he thinks back to other patients, remembers calmly monitoring the seizure and being the voice of reason as the victims woke. He reaches for that side of him, forcibly drags it out of the back of his head and wears it like a mask. Calm. Clinical. Confident. Nevermind that it's Sherlock, and that they're on the floor of a lab, and that it's just another sign that his friend is probably going to be dead in twenty-four hours. Forget all that, and focus.

"Three minutes, four seconds," he announces out of habit as Sherlock's body calms. He turns the detective onto his side and checks his pulse and respiration. Thumbs open his eyes and peers into his pupils. All normal. All fine.

"He's not moving," Lestrade points out.

"Postictal sleep," John recites, comforted by his own words. "Seizures are physically draining, his body and his brain need time to recover."

The DI looks uncomfortable. He knows that time is not a luxury they have right now.

"I would wake him up if I could, but he'd be too disoriented and incoherent to work. It's better if we let him rest, so that he can get back to work when he wakes." _ And hopefully this doesn't keep happening, _John adds silently. Because, truth be told, Sherlock is Sherlock's best shot at getting better. "Hand me his quilt from over there. Thank you. We'll continue as best we can on our own."

* * *

Sherlock is slogging through the oily mire that is his own brain. It is populated by numbers and molecular constructs and chains of mutated DNA. And John. John is in there somewhere too, but in abstract bits and fragments – a gently guiding hand on his arm, a quiet word, a breath ghosting over his cheek.

Just like John. John cannot be contained. John is transcendent.

There is pain somewhere, too. Far away and faint, but it is there, and Sherlock senses that pain and consciousness reside in the same quadrant, and so he stays away from both. Better to stay here, in the thick swamp of unconsciousness, where it does not hurt. Where John isn't looking at him like a patient and pressing a stethoscope to his chest and telling him to breathe deeply. Where Lestrade doesn't look sick at the sight of him wrapped in a quilt beside a microscope. Where someone didn't stupidly murder him with poison. Of all things! Poison. This is not the way Sherlock wants to die.

_Then think_, says the sandpaper chorus. Its tones hurt him, but it is not as bad as consciousness would hurt him, and so he tolerates it. _Think, and figure it out. There is an answer. It exists. You just have to find it_.

_I never did well with hide-and-seek_, Sherlock muses.

_Only because you thought it was pointless, but now you're being forced to play. Think. Think. Think._

Sherlock does, but it is difficult. He feels like he is stuck in the mud, entangled in a vast sea of sludge.

Sludge slides. Microbial bacteria. Communicative disease.

Irrelevant, delete.

Enemies. Moriarty. Cleverness.

Delete.

Mire. Mercury. Mycroft.

Delete.

Wait!

Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Strychnine. Aqua tofana. Arsenic. Ricin.

_Ricin_. Not ricin. Mycroft. No, not Mycroft either, but close. Think. Ricin has a brother. Ricin has a brother who is less subtle, more substantial, and infinitely more powerful. But also less well-known. Ricin has a Mycroft.

The sandpaper chorus hums its approval.

Sherlock makes for the swampy shore, and consciousness.

The pain is abrupt and unwelcome, and centralised in his head. He fights it, clawing at the last shreds of sleep as he pushes through the veil, eyes rolling as he forces them to open against too-bright light, and coughs out his first words since losing consciousness. "Mycroft—"

"No," says a voice gently, and there is a hand on his shoulder. "It's me, it's John. Relax, Sherlock, you've had a seizure, you need—"

"No," Sherlock bounces the word back at John, in a voice so sharp that John's jaw snaps shut. Sherlock's eyes are still rolling, trying to find purchase in a slick sea of light. John says something unintelligible to Lestrade and the lights go out. Sherlock's vision swims and then settles, and he focusses upon John's face.

He realises now that he is on the floor, and that John is kneeling over him.

Nevermind that! Speak, man!

"Mycroft," he says again, voice hoarse. Why is his voice hoarse? He feels as if he's been screaming for hours. _No, idiot, wrong word! _"Abrin!" he corrects. He sits up suddenly, coughing his voice clear. John is trying to press a glass of water into his hands, but Sherlock is pushing it away, reaching out and wrapping fingers cold as steel around John's shoulders. "I've worked it out, John, I've worked it out. Abrin," he says again, his eyes gazing intently into his friend's. "The poison. It's abrin."


	7. Eliminate the Impossible: Part 3

**A/N: Welcome to instalment 3 of "Eliminate the Impossible"! If any of you are doctors or chemists, I apologise for any inaccuracies. :P Also, I am deliberately vague on the chemistry later in this chapter. And where I'm not vague, I just sort of throw around big chemistry words, so… Don't research too much into anything I say. Please enjoy!**

* * *

The silence is deafening. John glances from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again. Lestrade is staring unblinkingly at Sherlock. Sherlock is pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"There's no antidote for abrin poisoning," John says softly.

He's right. There isn't. There have been cases in which patients have made a recovery, but only because they were administered a dosage just under the toxic level. There is no coming back from a lethal dose.

The silence roars onward for another three minutes, and then Lestrade's phone chirps. He excuses himself to answer it in the hall.

"There isn't _yet_." Sherlock's voice is muffled by the hands still obscuring his face.

John turns to him. "What?"

"There isn't an antidote _yet_." Sherlock rises suddenly, sways, and allows John to catch him. He makes a shaky gesture at the microscope and John guides him over to it. Sherlock looks very unsteady on the stool beside the work surface. "Abrin has been used in the treatment of small-cell lung cancer. The properties for antigen production are there, they just have to be explored."

"Sherlock, it's not even technically abrin anymore at that point, though. It's been stripped down at the molecular level – and even then, it's administered in such a small dosage as to be nonlethal. It's used to treat cancer, yes – but it takes months, years…"

"I don't have cancer."

"But you're talking about the same idea."

"Not at all." Sherlock leans into the microscope, slotting a blood slide into place as he draws close to the eyepieces. "I'm talking about re-engineering the poison to attack itself."

To John, it still sounds like the same thing. "Biological engineering. In a forensics lab. People with better resources have already tried coming up with an antidote for this, you know..."

"They weren't as motivated as I am," he states, arching an elegant eyebrow. "And government funding is fickle."

Lestrade returns, pocketing his phone and reaching for his coat. "I have to go," he says regretfully. "Donovan's got Lucerne talking. Says the information he has may be pertinent to you."

Sherlock and John exchange a look before their gazes turn on Lestrade. "How so?" Sherlock asks.

"That I don't know." Lestrade shrugs on his coat and goes for the door. "But hopefully it's something useful."

"And he'll only speak with you." How Sherlock deduced that, it isn't clear, but he returns his attention to the microscope.

"Right," confirms the DI. He looks to John with a pained expression. John can see that Greg is struggling – he feels duty-bound to stay and try to help, but knows he isn't doing much good. He also knows that Lucerne's information may clear up some of the mystery surrounding this incident, and Sherlock would want that, at least.

_We're acting as though he's already died,_ John thinks bitterly, but he gives Lestrade a nod that he hopes is reassuring or sympathetic or something.

The door clicks shut behind the DI.

* * *

Sherlock feels drugged. Faraway. Elevated. His normally immaculate mind is a mess of swirling colours and sounds and conflicting messages firing across confused synapses. His perception of time is disastrously altered: the conversation with John takes hours, but the following twenty minutes he spends at the microscope pass in a heartbeat. Occasionally he forgets where he is or what he is supposed to be doing, and always the edges of his vision are melting, furniture and appliances pooling together into a molten wave of viscous gel that threatens to swallow the room until he looks directly at it and it disappears, cowed by his stare.

John appears in his line of vision, all azure eyes and crenate fringe and bronze skin. Sherlock doesn't remember sitting back from the microscope, but John is saying something and he tries very hard to listen.

"Did you hear me?" John is asking now, his face very close to Sherlock's.

Sherlock shakes his head. He can only focus on one thing at a time, and right now he is painfully fixated on the A-string of abrin molecules.

John sighs and peels the backing off of a thermometer strip, adhering it to Sherlock's forehead. "I asked if you were alright. You stopped midsentence again." Sherlock was not aware of this, or the passage of time. John's eyes are on the strip, which colours through the 39 mark. He slides a tympanic into Sherlock's ear for a more specific reading, sighs at the display and puts the instrument down with slightly more force than necessary.

The door starts to melt and Sherlock glares it back into rigidity. "What was I saying?"

"Something about protein folding." He takes one of Sherlock's hands into his own and inspects his fingers.

Distantly, Sherlock knows that he is checking for cyanosis, but he can't work out what that means or why he's looking for it. "Yes," he says faintly. "Protein folding. Recombinant subunit of the A-chain as experimental vaccine. I don't feel very well."

"Need to throw up?"

"Not yet."

John slides his fingers down Sherlock's jawline, fingers probing at the lymph nodes hiding beneath the pale column of his throat. Sherlock shivers under the touch as it travels over his collarbones, down his sides, over his stomach.

"What is your blood type?" Sherlock asks out of the blue. The gears of his brain are still turning, if slowly.

John is frowning as he inserts the plugs of a stethoscope into his ears. "B-neg. Why?" He pauses to warm the end on his shirt.

"We may need Mycroft." Sherlock's voice is distant and weak, and he's turning back to the microscope, but John stays him with a hand on his arm, and pulls the blanket from around his shoulders. The detective makes a tight sound of protest but doesn't resist. The head of John's stethoscope is cruelly frigid to Sherlock, and the shock of it clears his mind a little. His glassy gaze moves to stare at the white board as the disc travels over his chest and then to his back; he takes a deep breath without being asked and wonders if the lists have gotten longer in the last five minutes.

"Are you having trouble breathing?"

"No. Chest hurts, though."

John nods and jots something down onto a notepad. Sherlock doesn't recall ever seeing it before, but the page John is writing on has already been scribbled over several hundred times. "I'm going to give you some clonazepam. I think you've been having absence seizures. And paracetamol for the fever. Do you think you could keep water down?"

"Probably." It's a guess at best, but it'll have to do for now.

Time continues to move in sporadic bursts and limps.

* * *

John feels useless as a lab assistant now. Sherlock's work is fully beyond him at this point – he's a doctor, not a chemist – and so he diverts all of his attention to his patient. He keeps the white board updated for his own information now, and makes periodic checks of Sherlock's symptoms.

The detective's condition as a whole is extremely worrying, but the neurological symptoms are downright spooky. John has caught Sherlock talking to inanimate objects multiple times. Sometimes he careens to a halt midsentence and stares off into space, picking up shortly thereafter as though he'd never been interrupted. Other times he trails off in the middle of a thought and doesn't remember what he's just said. Twice he's asked John what day it is, and can no longer distinguish between the passage of an hour or a minute. Once he popped out of a three-minute reverie and wanted to know what he was doing here. Aphasia has made an appearance more than once – Sherlock has substituted the word 'fish' when he meant 'cell' at least nine times. Worst of all are the moments of sheer terror, when Sherlock looks up suddenly from the microscope, with an expression of fear so plain that it sets John's heart to racing. It's as though he can't remember where he is, who he's with, or why he's here, and it horrifies him. Thankfully, the phenomenon passes within seconds, but John dreads a time when that might not be the case.

He knows, however, that it will be the other symptoms that debilitate him long before that point.

Sherlock is droppering something milky and thick into a petri dish containing a blood sample when he suddenly puts his instruments down and begins casting about, eyes darting left and right in search of something. John notes the yellowish tinge of his flatmate's skin and makes a quick deduction. He collects the wastepaper bin and strides over to where Sherlock is sitting, shoving the bin between his knees. With a gentle hand on the back of his neck, he pushes Sherlock forward and down a little, and the detective promptly vomits directly into the bin.

"Good timing," Sherlock says roughly as the last of the heaving subsides. He sucks down a few shaky breaths, gulping air in a way that says he is not sure if he's finished with the bucket.

There is blood in the bin, along with the water. John stands in front of Sherlock so that the bin is between them, and he still has his hand over the back of Sherlock's neck. His fingers tighten reflexively.

"I know," Sherlock says breathlessly. One hand is braced on the work surface. "I'm fine…"

John turns to go and empty the bin, but Sherlock's fingers are curled into his shirt and so he stops, setting the container down instead. He brushes a hand through the thick hair and is surprised when Sherlock leans forward, resting his head on John's chest. His forehead presses against his sternum. "Better or worse?" John asks softly.

Sherlock's reply is a weak noise and a brief head-shake. He sighs into the fabric of John's clothing, his warm breath snaking through the wave to caress the doctor's skin beneath. "I'm so tired," whispers Sherlock.

John feels a leaden weight settle in his chest. He places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and easily pries him away. Then he bends a little to catch his eye. "I know." Sherlock looks years younger – helpless and weak. This is not the man John knows. He misses the turned up collars and swirling coattails in a way he never thought he would. He has only been sick for a few days, but it feels like weeks to him and he knows that to Sherlock it must feel even longer. "You were just saying a few minutes ago, Sherlock," he says, mustering up some encouragement from a nearly-depleted reserve. "You said you were onto something."

It doesn't appear that Sherlock hears him. He is staring at John's chest with an unreadable expression. He frowns and drags his eyes to John's face. "What if…" He falters, makes a second attempt. His speech is slurred. "John, if this is it, if this is – "

"No. Look at me. No." John shakes his head.

"You have to consider – "

"Sherlock, _no._"

"Mycroft will need – "

"_No_." John raises his voice without meaning to, and his insides crumble a little at the look Sherlock gives him in reply. His fingers tighten around those thin shoulders and he puts on his best Captain Watson face. "Focus, Sherlock! You said you were onto something. What was it?"

The detective-turned-chemist looks alarmed. "I don't know." Frighteningly weak.

John wracks his own brain. "The last thing you said was _Ricinus communis_."

"That doesn't make any sense." Sherlock closes his eyes, leaning into John's grip. He murmurs under his breath. The look on his face says _mind palace_ but John isn't sure he's quite there. John isn't sure he's able to get quite there. He mutters something about _glycoprotein _and _thioether bonds_ and then falls silent for several beats before clapping his hands together.

"Got it?" John questions, his grip on the detective slackening.

Nodding, Sherlock turns out of his grasp and starts grabbing at vials of chemicals. "I need a catalyst," he states around a cough. "Uhm… Antilisterial bacteriocin… oh _god_."

"What?"

"You were right. This may be it. It's been right in front of us all along, John." He dumps a shockingly blue liquid into a vial of something clear, and shakes unceremoniously. The contents turn a sickly yellow and separate into two distinct bodies. "Phone Mycroft. Tell him to come at once." His eyelids flutter as if he's too focussed to be bothered to blink.

John goes into the hall and rings Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock can hardly function, for all his energy is being poured into remembering and creating the chemical reaction that sprang to his brain on a whim. He is well aware that it may not work. He is well aware that something very similar has already been tested, but that was bloody _ricin_ and not abrin and they are _not_ the same thing. Not any more so than jelly is marmalade or he is Mycroft.

The table surges upward in a roar of moving liquid. The hallucination startles him into dropping a vial of his own blood onto the floor and it clatters and rolls away. "Not now," he tells the rolling mass of the table. "Not now, not now, not now…"

His brain is cooking. His mind palace is in a shambles, as if a hurricane came through his skull and tore it to bits. He worries fleetingly that it will be beyond repair, and then dismisses the thought – irrelevant, if he doesn't find an antitoxin.

The chemicals he is working with now are unpredictable at best. What he is attempting could very well kill him, but the abrin will _definitely_ kill him and so as far as he's concerned, this is his best shot. Sherlock can tell that there is not much time left. He can feel it. He's cold, and cognitive functions have slowed to an alarming rate. Breathing requires concentration. His focus is a fragile thing. A thick, uncompromising pain has settled into his chest. He hasn't told John any of this, but he might know already.

John steps back into the room. "Mycroft is on his way. He said something about… um… alba?"

"Mm," Sherlock hums. He lists, just slightly, on the stool.

"…Sherlock?" John's voice is hesitant.

Sherlock has the sense that several minutes have passed without his being aware of it. His fingers curl around the edge of the table as he stares down into a half-full beaker. The breath catches in his throat. He watches as the room liquefies, massing its forces and threatening to drown him. _Not now_, he thinks, but this time it isn't working. The ichorous furniture forms a mouth with sharp teeth and states in a deadpan voice, _The end is nigh._

"I know," Sherlock sighs.

"Know what?" John asks. His voice is suddenly very close.

Sherlock starts. Looks at John, who is now beside him even though the floor beneath his feet is rolling like the ocean in a storm. "John." With one hand, he touches the strong line of John's jaw. Memorising.

For the first time, something like fear flashes over John's countenance. It probably isn't the first time he's felt it, but it is the first time he's let Sherlock see. Sherlock knows it was not intentional.

Mycroft appears in the doorway as if by magic.

With some effort, Sherlock swivels his head in his brother's direction.

"John," Mycroft says in his mellifluous tones, "go to the car."

"I'm not leaving," John says sharply.

"We are all leaving," Mycroft clarifies.

Sherlock groans. John catches him as he lists forward, but his eyes are on Mycroft. Confusion.

"We cannot do this here. He will be safer and more comfortable at home, where medical protocol cannot interfere."

"Just what is it that we're doing?" John again. He's angry. He hates being left out of the loop.

_Sorry, John…_ "Passive antibody prophylaxis." Sherlock rests his head against John's shoulder.

John's fingers tighten on Sherlock's shoulder. "That won't work! It's been attempted!"

"Not with this." Sherlock holds up a vial of something thick and translucently amber. "This changes everything." He shivers against John's chest.

"We need to hurry," Mycroft says, and for once he seems to have trouble sounding unconcerned.

* * *

John is lost in the midst of the Holmes brothers' great plan, but the, that's nothing new. With no other options but to trust their combined massive intellect, John does as Mycroft instructs. He helps him put Sherlock into the waiting car, and goes back for the long list of supplies. They are easy enough to procure, with the help of Mycroft's assistant, and between the two of them they are able to get everything loaded into the boot of the car in one trip.

Mycroft is loading a syringe from the sickly amber vial when John slides into the backseat. "Should I even bother asking what that is?"

Sherlock is between his brother and John, and rapidly losing consciousness. He turns his head in John's direction and looks at him with doe eyes. He explains in a voice barely above a whisper. "A solution that will… boost antigen production in Mycroft's blood… as well as treat him for cancer." Sherlock chuckles, but it is too high-pitched.

"And then you'll do a small transfusion," John concludes, looking at Mycroft. "I still don't see how that's going to work. His body is too weak to manage its own antibody production, even if it is stimulated by the solution of your blood and that… stuff."

Mycroft shrugs and clears the air from the syringe before slipping the needle into his own forearm. "He's anaemic from the toxin in his blood. If a larger transfusion is needed, then that is what we will do."

John pales a little. "There's a chance this won't work. For all you know, you're double-dosing him with abrin." It's not a question. He's deduced that on his own.

Sherlock squeezes his hand.

* * *

It's cold in the car. Or no, it's not, because Sherlock can see the sweat on Mycroft's forehead. Although that could be anxiety. He has just injected himself with a solution containing parts of the abrin toxin. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him very sick if Sherlock has his chemistry wrong. And that's a possibility. He realises this with some alarm. He's rarely wrong when it comes to _science_. Science is concrete – numbers and measurements and reactions. Predictable. Reliable. He's never wrong.

Although this time it's different. This time…

John's eyes are scanning him with an unreadable expression. Sherlock takes a shuddering breath and tries to speak, but no sound comes out. He closes his mouth on chattering teeth and lets his head fall against John's shoulder. Sleep comes unbidden.

Sherlock emerges from the veil of unconsciousness several times, though fleetingly. Once to John's gentle voice in his ear. Once to two men shouting. Once to John's panicked breathlessness and swearing. _Don't die_. The words float toward Sherlock on a sea of smoke and blood, and he knows he must obey. The heel of a hand presses into his chest. Sherlock tells himself not to die.

His heart beats obediently.

The blackness is warm and welcoming.

"Sherlock."

Someone is calling his name. Beyond that, Sherlock can hear his own voice falling through the rough tones of a pained moan as he struggles toward consciousness. He feels as though his skin is aflame – his clothes and the leather sofa beneath him cause blinding pain just from the contact. He can hear himself whimper, and is present enough to be embarrassed.

"Sherlock," John says again, his voice thick and uncertain. "Talk to me."

Cool fingers touch his wrist, and Sherlock hisses at the fire of that brief touch, arching in pain as he clumsily pulls his wrist away. He forces his eyes open and stares at the ceiling of 221B Baker Street.

John makes a strained noise in his throat, and Sherlock slowly turns his head toward him. His neck hurts, an ache like he's slept at an uncomfortable position. John glows warm and golden in the soft morning light of their flat, but it ends at his eyes, which are fixed on him in concern.

"Sherlock?" John says again.

"John," replies Sherlock in a thin voice, and this produces a sigh from his flatmate. The detective tries to assess the situation on his own, but he feels too wretched to tell if he's still dying or if his plan has worked. He doesn't know how much time has passed. It could have been days; it could have been minutes. He could be on his death bed.

"You're okay," John assures him, obviously sensing Sherlock's rising panic. He reaches out to touch him, then stops at the last moment, remembering the pain he caused the last time. "Your hare-brained plan worked, as usual."

Sherlock blinks drowsily at John. "It was close, though."

"Yes, it was." John frowns. "Do you know where you are?"

"Baker Street."

"The year?"

"I'm fine, John." Mostly.

Mycroft vomits audibly from somewhere down the hall.

John grimaces. "The abrin solution made him a little sick, but he's okay. The transfusion made him weak as a kitten, though." A smile teases the corner of John's mouth. Then it fades and he sighs and rests his head against the edge of the sofa as though all of the energy has been drained from him.

Sherlock slowly lifts his hand and places it on John's head, carding his fingers through his hair. The soft fibres of John's fringe leave tiny pins-and-needles sensations on his palm. He wonders if this is permanent.

They stay like this for a while, but then John seems duty bound to lift his head and ask, "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock considers the question for a long time, his fingers resting against John's shoulder. "Achy," he says at last. "Everything hurts." He picks at his clothes.

John nods in apparent understanding. "That seemed to start last night. Somewhere along the way you developed a pain response to any sort of pressure."

"Will it pass?"

"I don't know. I think so."

Minutes tick by in silence. Sherlock's eyes have closed of their own accord.

"Lestrade stopped by earlier."

Sherlock opens his eyes and fastens them on John.

"Lucerne didn't have anything useful to say. He danced around for a bit and then tried to use the information about abrin like it was something we needed. Lestrade tossed him back into a cell."

"How long has it been?"

"Since the lab? Three days."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Has Lestrade gotten any more information on who was behind all this?"

"Not a whisper."

"Then the game is on."

John laughs. The sound is musical and tumbles over Sherlock's chest in a shower of sunlight. "The game is not on," he says firmly. "You need to rest. And eat. And thank your brother for poisoning himself for you."

"Mmm," says Sherlock.

* * *

John watches as the detective slowly slips back into sleep. He won't lecture this time. He won't tell Sherlock just how close it was. He won't let him find out about the sudden, panicked bout of CPR on the living room floor, or the screaming match he'd had with Mycroft about going to hospital. He'll keep all that to himself this time, so that Sherlock won't know how he worried, how convinced he was that Sherlock was going to die. He battles with himself over this decision, but decides it's for the best. Sherlock doesn't need to feel guilty over this – it's not the same as chasing down an armed suspect and taking a knife in the side when you reach him.

Mycroft trudges into the sitting room, sipping from a glass of water and looking extremely pale. John gestures toward one of the armchairs and the elder Holmes falls into it. He casts a meaningful glance at Sherlock before his gaze returns to John.

Nodding, John gets to his feet and goes to his own chair. His energy is sapped. "He woke for a bit," he says. "Fever broke overnight. He says he's hurting, but I think it will get better." He chews his lip for a minute and then scans Mycroft. "You okay?"

"Fine," replies Mycroft, waving off John's concern with a languid flap of his hand. He sips thoughtfully for a few moments. "I imagine you're itching to get your hands on the man responsible."

John hums.

"Let me," Mycroft says. Something cold has edged into his voice, and his eyes have narrowed at the fireplace. "I think you and I may have a similar idea of justice, but there is no sense getting your hands dirty."

And of all the inappropriate responses John could choose, he laughs. He laughs, because he believes Mycroft will do whatever he sees fit to avenge his brother's suffering. It fills him with a warm sort of contentment, and before long John finds himself nodding off to the sound of Mycroft's snores and Sherlock's quiet breathing.

* * *

**UPDATE (July 14): This story arc is continued in "Eliminate the Impossible: Recovery," which can be found in my profile. It is a work in progress and is NOT complete. **


	8. End of Days

**A/N: For my husband.**

* * *

_He looks tired_, John thinks, studying his friend from across the antique chessboard.

The thought should shock him. Sherlock never looks tired. He has two primary modes: the flurry of activity that accompanies The Work, and the utter collapse that comes from the exhaustion afterward. Never has John witnessed 'tired' or 'under the weather' or 'weary'. Sherlock does nothing by half.

Yet, for some reason, John makes his silent observation with a sort of sad resignation. He always knew this day might come. Denial is a wonderful sedative, but it has a shelf-life. John is not sure when he stopped telling himself that Sherlock Holmes would live forever.

The years have been kind to Sherlock. His hair, though now completely grey, is still thick and unruly. He wears it short these days, instead of in the carefree curls of his youth. His face is a roadmap of wrinkles and little lines, but the chiseled jaw and cheekbones remain prominent. There is a scar longitudinally dissecting his left eyebrow, and the hair simply refuses to grow over it. His fingers, now gnarled with age, still grasp at the chess pieces with confidence – even if they do tremble ever so slightly.

John has fared well, too. His posture is still arrow-straight despite his needing a cane (and this time his limp is anything but psychosomatic). His short hair is grey and receding, but the exposure of the front of his scalp seems to lengthen his forehead and make him appear wise and scholarly. Laughter lines surround his thin mouth, and crow's feet adorn the outer corners of his blue eyes. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle into sparkling sapphire slits behind the panes of his glasses.

"Checkmate." Sherlock's voice is reedy. He sits back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk, which lifts the right half of his mouth but not the left.

Huffing a laugh, John shakes his head. "As usual," he concedes.

A voice at the door turns both their heads.

"Dad?"

A woman stands in the threshold. She is in her mid-thirties; blond, blue-eyed, with high blushing cheekbones and creamy skin. At the moment, she is very pregnant, but it is clear from the dainty wrists and ankles that she is normally a tall, slender thing. She is wearing a sleeveless spring dress and has her hair pulled back. A wedding ring sparkles on her left hand.

John smiles at the sight of her, beckoning her inside with one arm. "Just in time, Izzy. Your uncle's beaten me again."

Izzy smiles and crosses the sunlit sitting room to place a loving arm round her father's shoulders. "You know," she says slowly, her eyes flicking over the chessboard, "you could go easy on him once or twice, Uncle Sherlock. It couldn't hurt."

Both men laugh heartily, their wheezing chortles punctuated by Izzy's musical chuckle.

After the gales subside, Izzy squeezes John's shoulder. "Ready? Jacob's in the car."

"I'll be right down," John says with a nod, patting his daughter's hand.

She nods and smiles and takes her leave.

Sherlock stands first. "Decided on a name yet?" he asks politely as he walks John to the door.

"No," John says, shaking his head. "Izzy says she needs to meet him first." He throws his hands up as though he doesn't understand it, and leans heavily on his cane as they walk together.

They pause at the door of 221b to shake hands, and John's grasp lingers longer than normal, clinging to Sherlock's slender hand with all the strength in his own. "Listen, Sherlock..."

"Yes?" The grey eyes are as sharp and alert as ever, but there is a tenderness in them that only age can bring. They peer into John with honest curiosity.

"Take care," is what John settles upon eventually, and he reaches out to embrace his friend. Their hands break apart as the two men close their arms round one another, and Sherlock pats John's back.

"And you as well, John."

* * *

The call comes late in the evening a few days later. He hears the phone ringing in the kitchen, listens as Izzy picks it up.

"Oh, hi, Kate," she says brightly, and John's heart sinks.

Kate Tyler is Mrs. Hudson's great-niece, who now owns the flats at Baker Street. Formerly, she was a nurse, and frequently finds herself taking care of Sherlock despite her claims that she is 'the landlady, not the nurse'. Some things do not change over the years.

But the fact that she is ringing at this hour – or at all, really – is ominous. John's fingers clutch at the edges of his armchair as he listens to his daughter's footsteps approaching.

"Yes," Izzy is saying, "I'll just get him for you. Hang on."

John takes the phone when it is offered, giving Izzy a smile in the hopes she won't notice his apprehension of taking this call. He waits until she leaves the room before he greets Kate.

They exchange pleasantries briefly, and Kate gets right to the point. It is as John feared. Sherlock has been in hospital again, but this time only for two days. At the end of that stay, they gave him a choice: they could call hospice, or they could discharge him. It was up to him, they said, but he might like for someone to be around to care for him. Sherlock, of course, chose to go home.

"His heart and kidneys are failing, John. He hasn't got long," Kate says softly, her voice full of gentle sympathy.

With a sigh, John nods to himself. "I'll be round in the morning, then. Is there... does he have someone... to..."

"I'll be looking after him," says Kate, plucking the thought from John's mind.

"Thank you," John replies, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "Thank you, Kate. See you tomorrow, then."

"Goodnight."

John waits until the line goes dead before he presses the 'end' button on the handset. The phone falls into his lap as he cradles his face in one hand, a dozen thoughts swirling through his brain. He is not upset that Sherlock didn't call himself – he's probably far too tired for such activities, and they stopped informing each other of every single hospital visit a long time ago. But John is already beginning to grieve, faced with the imminent loss of his friend. _What happened_? he wonders. _What happened to my plan of being the first to go? What happened to the both of us going out in a blaze of glory at the end of some great case, defending truth and justice? _

Well, life happened, John realises suddenly. It doesn't stop for anyone, not even Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They both got older. They both got to the point where gallivanting around London solving crimes on an unofficial basis became just too difficult. John married, had children and then grandchildren. Sherlock went on to develop new investigative technology for the military and police forces. Their lives were both great in their own ways, even when they started to branch in slightly different directions.

_But that's the difference between him and me_, John thinks bitterly. _When I die, I will be surrounded by my children and their children. Sherlock doesn't have that. There will be no mourning sons, no weeping daughters, no sweet grandchildren clutching his hand in his final moments. He is alone. Sherlock has no family._

A tear rolls down the wrinkled face of John Watson and he silently corrects himself: _No. Not alone. He has me. I'm his family. _

* * *

221b is as bright and warm as it ever was when John enters its familiar embrace the next morning. Kate lets him in, and offers him a cup of tea that he turns down. He hangs his coat on the rack as though the last thirty-two years never happened and he still lives here.

Sherlock's bedroom is not as disorganised as it once was. The clutter, nowadays, is confined to the dresser and the desk and mostly consists of paperwork for the various patents that Sherlock has acquired over the years – as well as the occasional piece of dissected machinery. He doesn't experiment much anymore, unless it has to do with enhanced night vision goggles.

The room is open to the sunlight pouring in from the west, bathing the end of the bed in a warm glow. John drags his eyes up over the slight frame buried beneath the duvet, and finds Sherlock's head and shoulders exposed, propped up with pillows against the headboard. There is a book in his left hand, but it has fallen limply on top of the bedspread.

"Come in, come in," Sherlock says thinly, flapping a hand at John. "Don't hover in the doorway."

With a wan smile, John does as he's told, crossing past Sherlock's bed to nick the wicker chair out from beneath the desk. He drags it over to the side of his friend's bed and sits heavily, resting his cane against the bedside table. "Well," John begins, as in days gone by, "what have you done to yourself this time?"

Sherlock chuckles. "Got old. No one bothered to inform me, either."

"This is the first I'm hearing of it, myself."

"Truthfully, I never saw it coming," Sherlock admits, and there is something bordering on wistful in his voice. "I always thought..." He trails off, the strength going out of him, and his head falls back against the pillows. He gathers himself and continues, "I always thought I would die at the hands of some grand enemy. Or in a firefight. Chasing down a suspect. Falling into the Thames."

John sighs and leans back a little in his chair. "That makes two of us. Never in a million years did I imagine we would reach old age, either of us."

"Statistically speaking, the odds were against us."

"True enough."

They lapse into a silence that is broken by the birds chirping outside, and the dull rales of Sherlock's laboured breathing. His eyes are on John, but they are glassy and frequently lose their focus. John can see that he is still present, but tired and extremely weak. Kate was absolutely right – there is not much time.

"Do you have any regrets?" John asks out of the blue, surprising even himself.

The question catches Sherlock off-guard, but he does not seem offended or put off by it. He frowns, and his eyes flicker over John's body. "Do _you_?"

"No," John answers readily, and it is true. Sometimes he wishes that his friendship with Sherlock had not been reduced to once-a-week visits in their senescence, but he does not regret the decisions that led them there. They both achieved the things they wanted; parting ways somewhat was necessary.

"Nor do I," Sherlock says, and he seems pleased by the realisation. But then his face turns pensive, and he strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Although there is one thing that has always bothered me."

"What's that?"

"The Pembleton case. The one with the gold earring. Was it – Thompson?"

"Toulson," John corrects. "I remember. What about it?"

Sherlock's eyes slide closed. "I've had doubts about that case," he admits softly. "Sometimes I wonder if we put away the right man."

"I thought it was an open and shut case?" John's surprise shows through in his voice.

Sherlock shrugs languidly and speaks without opening his eyes. "It's just a feeling I've had... It bothers me more now, though."

"I could look into it for you," John says kindly, certain that it's unnecessary. Never has he known Sherlock to be wrong about the outcome of a case. They've never put away the wrong person.

"Don't trouble yourself, John."

"No, it's no trouble. I'll pop over to NSY this afternoon and have another look through the case file, just to be certain."

"Thank you..."

"Of course, Sherlock. No problem."

* * *

Five hours later, Izzy and Jacob's dining table is covered in paperwork, photographs, and bagged evidence. John's laptop is open on one of the chairs, the archives of his blog displayed on a web page. Izzy's tablet is also propped on a dining chair, this one open to Sherlock's old website. Of course, Sherlock's notes on the case are considerably more cryptic than John's; but truthfully, neither of them are all that helpful.

"What a mess," Izzy sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's a wonder the police ever solved anything back in your day, Dad."

Jacob, standing beside his wife, shakes his head. "This is, what – a forty-year-old case? Forty-five? It's a wonder they still had all this stuff..."

John feels very old. "Probably they just never bothered to clean out all the old lockers," he admits.

"Which is probably why they let you take it all," adds Jacob, with a snicker.

* * *

As it turns out, New Scotland Yard kept terrible records during the peak of Sherlock's career. John suspects that this is because Sherlock rarely explained himself in full or in a way that would be understood by the grunts doing the paperwork, which resulted in reports that were incomplete or altogether unfiled. And, of course, nobody ever went back to check because Sherlock was never, ever wrong.

Except this time.

It is close to midnight when John's trembling hands close around the piece of paper that absolves a now-dead criminal of murder. According to this piece of paper – emailed over from Saint Marcus Hospital four hours ago – the suspect was hospitalised at the time of the murder he supposedly committed, as well as the two days before and one day after. What's more – the reason listed on the intake form is _attempted suicide_. Via overdose. He couldn't have been killing his wife and himself at the same time, could he?

The hospital bracelet the man was wearing when he was apprehended is what turned John in this direction. It had been cut off the suspect when he was arrested, and apparently tossed into an evidence locker and then forgotten about. A quick lookup of the medical records via a friend at St. Marcus quickly proved John's worst fear.

Sherlock Holmes was wrong.

_No,_ John thinks, and he seems unable to think anything else. _I can't believe it_. So firm is his disbelief that he spends the rest of the night and most of the wee morning hours trying to prove himself wrong.

He fails.

Come morning, John's disbelief has melted into dismay. They were wrong about this one. The evidence of such is staring right at him, and though denial still tugs at his shirtsleeves, he's left with no other options in the face of the suspect's alibi. _It must have come up in court,_ John thinks, incredulous. _Wouldn't the medical records have been referenced as evidence? Wouldn't the hospital stay be his main defence? _His memory does not serve him well in this regard – he has very little personal recollections of the case specifics.

The question he is now faced with is heavy and frightening. _How do I tell Sherlock_?

The clock strikes six, and John hears the monotone bleat of an alarm clock from upstairs. The sound rouses him from his dumbfounded trance, and he shakes his head to clear it. _I can't tell him. I won't tell him. _John hates lying, especially to Sherlock, but he cannot let him leave this world knowing that he failed, and that a man died in prison because of his failure. He resolves not to tell him at all, and in fact to put it out of his mind. There is no help for it, anyway – the man is dead, and whomever killed his wife is probably also very much beyond the reach of this world.

_And I am too old to be chasing criminals across London_, John adds silently.

* * *

There is a cannula in the back of Sherlock's hand, and an IV rack beside his bed. John can see the label on the bag hanging from the rack and knows that hospice must have come after all, to administer what palliative care they could offer. The IV line is disconnected now and has been for some time, but the drugs are still doing their job and doing it well; Sherlock is sound asleep in his bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. John stands at the end of the bed, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of the thin chest with dread.

He is vaguely aware of Kate touching his shoulder. "You okay?" she asks kindly, staring up at John with sad brown eyes.

John sighs in response. "Has it been bad?" he asks, nodding toward the IV rack. He feels guilty for having not been here last night and the better part of today. It seems so silly now, all that time spent trying to pin down the Pembleton case, when he is now resolved to lie to him about it anyway.

Kate makes a noncommittal gesture and an ambiguous noise in the back of her throat. "On and off," she says at last. She lowers her voice to a near-whisper. "I... I rang hospice this morning... I hope that's... um..."

John realises with a start that Kate is afraid she's offended him by making that call herself, instead of calling John to do it. He shakes his head and places a heavy hand on her shoulder. "That's exactly what you should have done," he states firmly.

"Okay," the landlady-not-nurse says with a relieved sigh. Her shoulders slump a little under John's hand and he realises she is probably exhausted.

"Go home," he says, setting his cane down upon the desk and shedding his jacket. "I've got it from here."

"You sure?" she asks, eyes scanning him dubiously.

John winks and waves her away.

"Okay. I'm just upstairs if you need anything..." Kate glances once more at Sherlock's sleeping form, and bids John goodnight.

The wicker chair whispers across the carpet as John tugs it toward Sherlock's bedside. He lowers himself into it, and observes Sherlock sigh in his sleep, a deep frown marring the pale space between his grey brows. The drugs are wearing off; the pain is returning with slow but steady resolve.

"Not much longer, my friend," John whispers, reaching out to touch one of the frail hands that lay upon the bedspread.

* * *

It is early the next morning when John is prying his own eyelids open, aware that he'd fallen asleep in the chair some hours before but uncertain what has woken him. The west-facing window behind him reveals the grey-blue dawn sky, and from somewhere down the street he can hear a car starting. It's still early: the birds aren't even up yet.

As his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room, John realises that Sherlock is awake and looking at him – or at least, he appears to be. Rousing himself more fully, John rubs a hand over his face and leans forward, tentatively reaching out to tap Sherlock's hand. "Hey. You awake?"

"Mm," Sherlock says, and his voice is faint. He blinks slowly at John, his eyes comprehending but only just. John notices that his breaths come short and shallow. He clicks on the bedside lamp and sees that Sherlock's nail beds are blue, in sharp contrast with the sickly pallor that has overtaken the rest of him. His heart is failing.

"Can I get you anything?" John's voice cracks and belies the calm that the rest of him projects.

Sherlock gives that lopsided smile of his. "No," he says in an almost-whisper. His speech is halting, as though it's taking up all his strength. His wrinkled brow contracts as he pours his remaining energy into it. "But did you... look... into... the... Pembleton..."

"Yes," John interrupts. He drags his chair closer and takes Sherlock's hand in both of his own. His eyes sting oddly, and he tries to blink the sensation away. "You were right, Sherlock. You got it right. David Toulson killed his wife."

A smile flickers over Sherlock's worn face, and his fingers twitch in John's hand. "Ah. You found... the bullet casing... then." His eyes lose focus for a moment, then come back slowly. "Knew... you would... Had faith in you... John."

"Bullet casing," John repeats, lost. His friend must be incoherent. Is he in pain? "Sherlock – "

"Cleverer... than... you give yourself... credit for..." Sherlock interrupts, barreling through John's attempts at speech. "Cleverer than... I gave..." He stops, suddenly looking through John instead of at him.

John feels his own heart stop. He squeezes the hand he holds more tightly and recognises the cold tendrils of panic wrapping themselves around his lower spine. "Sherlock?"

After a shuddering breath, Sherlock picks up the thread again, determined to finish. "Wanted you to see," he says, whispering now. "Wanted you to see... for yourself..."

"Sherlock, I don't understand."

"The... casing... John. Do... try... to keep up..." He tries to smile, but it looks more like a macabre grimace, worthy of a Halloween costume, and it makes John sick to his stomach.

"Okay, Sherlock," he says, his voice quivering. "Okay." He feels he should say something profound. But what? _I love you_? _I'll miss you_? These things are obvious. Suddenly John aches for Mary. She would have known what to say. She would be here, across from him, holding Sherlock's other hand and whispering sweetly, some comforting story from their younger days. But she's long gone, and so is anyone else who could help in this situation, and so John just sits there and occasionally issues soft, soothing noises until his friend's eyes gloss over and slide shut.

It happens quietly. Sherlock lapses into half-consciousness as the oxygen in his brain expires. His breaths slow and lose their rhythm, his pulse fades and then freezes. John glances at the clock out of habit as his fingers press into the curve of Sherlock's wrist. _05:19_, it reads in large white characters. He says it in his head to solidify the idea. _Sherlock died at 05:19 in the morning on Tuesday, August 14th. _

* * *

A week later, John is stuck with the task of figuring out what to do with all of Sherlock's things. Even in old age, he was a hoarder of an eclectic assortment of items. Most of it will end up donated to charity – the useful bits, anyway. The skull on the mantelpiece will probably go with John back to Izzy and Jacob's. The books will go to the London Library, except the ones that Sherlock wrote – those will probably go back with John, too. The microscope and other scientific equipment will go to a school, as requested in Sherlock's will.

The closet still smells like his expensive shampoo. John is taken back decades as he opens the folding doors. It's hard to remember those days, now. Living here, together, without a thought of death to hound them. At least, back then, it didn't seem so daunting. Rather it was a faraway notion, something that they only dealt with at crime scenes, and never applied to themselves.

Young and reckless.

The shelf above the clothing rack is full of boxes. John pulls a few down and realises that they are case notes. _Since when does Sherlock take notes_? he wonders, somewhat amused but ultimately perplexed by the idea. He opens a box and rifles through some of the contents – there's evidence in some of them (_Highly illegal_, thinks John), but for the most part they're just full of scrap paper that's been scribbled on in almost indecipherable code.

John allows himself to reminisce as he flicks through some of their old cases.

Pembleton comes back to him suddenly about an hour later, and his casual reminiscent wanderings abruptly become a frantic search. By the time he comes across the folder marked 'Pembleton,' it has been three hours and Sherlock's bedroom floor is a mess of poorly organised case files. John is breathless as he lifts out the file and opens it on the bed. His heart slams against his ribcage in an effort to escape its confines, and he takes a few deep breaths. _It's irrelevant,_ he reminds himself. _This is just to satisfy my curiosity. Probably nothing in this file makes sense anyway, just like most of the others_.

He's partly right. Most of the paperwork consists of insane-looking chicken scratch. There are a few photographs – of the body, of the suspect, of the murder weapon, of a few inane-looking pieces of evidence. There are a couple zip-top plastic bags in with the papers, too, though, and John picks them out.

One in particular catches his eye.

A bullet casing, accompanied by a folded-up piece of paper. Or several pieces of paper, more accurately. Gingerly, John unzips the bag and pulls out the paper, careful not to touch the casing. This is more out of habit than anything else – surely the evidence from such an old case is no longer relevant or in danger of contamination.

One of the papers is a printout of a fingerprint analysis. The other is scrap, with Sherlock's spidery handwriting on it: _Samuel Weyland_, it says. Then, below that: _Saint Marcus Hospital_. Then, after something else that is scratched out, _Fraud._

"What?" John asks aloud, as though Sherlock might answer from beyond the grave. He does, but only in John's head: _Find out about Samuel Weyland._

With a sigh, John goes to the computer on the nearby desk and flicks the power switch. He is slightly bitter that he is following Sherlock's posthumous commands, but his curiosity – no, his _need_ to know more – is largely driving him now. He pulls the wicker chair close to the desk and sets his cane aside, settling in for another long afternoon of research.

* * *

It is well past tea-time when John finally puts together what Sherlock probably figured out in a couple of hours, all those years ago. An investigation into the background of Samuel Weyland shows that he was a friend of Toulson's, who worked at the hospital where the suspect was admitted for drug overdose. Except that Toulson wasn't really admitted, and Weyland forged the paperwork as well as the records stating such. The plan, according to Sherlock's notes, had been to use the hospital stay as an alibi so that Toulson could kill his wife, and then split the insurance money with Weyland. They had it all worked out, and – according to Sherlock's case file – had even purchased train tickets to make their getaway afterward.

And the bullet casing? Toulson's fingerprints were on it. It was found in a mouse-hole at the house where Toulson shot his wife: a place none of the so-called idiots (Sherlock's words) at New Scotland Yard would have thought to look.

John stares in disbelief at the empty bed as though his friend were still lying in it, giving him that smug half-smirk and saying, "You found the bullet casing, then. Knew you would. I had faith in you, John. You're cleverer than you give yourself credit for. Cleverer than I ever gave you credit for. I just wanted you to see. Wanted you to see for yourself."

"Okay, Sherlock," John says to the empty room, eyes brimming despite his attempts to blink away the tears. He shakes his head and laughs without knowing why. "Okay."


End file.
